


Beyond this Existence: Atonement

by aliceslantern



Series: Beyond this Existence [4]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: (mostly), Canon Compliant, Everyone Has Issues, Existential Crisis, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Kingdom Hearts III, Slow Burn, also this fic is episodic bc what is plot, did i mention we go into the human experimentation, except they hate each other for like half the story, local dad just wants to protect his son more at 11, pretty heavy background zemyx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:21:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 98,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21820312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceslantern/pseuds/aliceslantern
Summary: Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3
Relationships: Aeleus & Even (Kingdom Hearts), Ansem the Wise | DiZ/Even, Demyx & Even (Kingdom Hearts), Demyx/Ienzo (Kingdom Hearts), Demyx/Zexion (Kingdom Hearts), Dilan & Even (Kingdom Hearts), Even & Ienzo (Kingdom Hearts)
Series: Beyond this Existence [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1341316
Comments: 30
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

The boy is utterly numb, despite the fact that Even’s weaned him off the painkillers. He has not said one solitary word to anyone, has barely made eye contact. His knowledge of psychology is less than ideal, but he knows that the boy is clearly deeply traumatized.

Ansem has barely left his bedside, taking his work in with him, fretting over this or that shred of diplomacy. Even tried to tell him that such stress was not good for the little one; he needed peace, quiet, rest, and likely soon some kind of counseling, once they can find an appropriate person. But Ansem wouldn’t hear it, and once Ansem’s mind is made up there’s no convincing him. What does Even know; he’s only a doctor, he’s only seen firsthand what stress will do to people.

Still, there is the matter of what will become of the boy. As the days pass, Even tries to convince Ansem into making some kind of choice. There are plenty of childless couples in Radiant Garden that would be happy to take him in, despite trauma; he will go down to the agency and personally interview them if that is what it will take to get a decision. 

When Ansem finally decides, they’ve moved the boy from the med bay onto their floor. He still has not said a word, but at least he looks one in the eye. Even tries to fill the silences with questions. He is out of practice with children.

“Are you hungry? Would you like some juice? Apple, orange? Would you like to go outside? I’m sure Aeleus would be happy to accompany you. Fresh air would be good for you, it’s such a lovely day. Maybe you can make a friend to play with.”

He is met always with that quiet, one piercing teal eye staring up at him through long bangs. He's itching to cut it--no doubt that hair is no good for his eyesight--but he knows he needs to be careful with this one. Even realizes that he isn’t sure if the boy even knows; what did he see? Did Ansem tell him what happened? He must’ve.

Again, he goes down to his office, that familiar bastion. Ansem's desk is a sea of papers; half bureaucratic, half scientific, a slurry that makes Even wince. “I don’t suppose you have a moment, Master.”

He chances giving me a small smile. “For you, Even, always.”

Sarcastic bastard. “I hate to be redundant, but I have questions about the boy.”

His soft expression hardens a little. “His name is Ienzo.”

“Is he aware of what happened?”

Ansem scratches his beard. “It’s hard to be sure  _ what _ he’s aware of,” he mutters. “Have a seat.”

It is never good news when Ansem asks one to sit. Even picks up a stack of papers from one of the chairs and sets it down. 

“Even, it warms my heart to know you care. I see such tenderness from you so rarely. I wish you would allow it to come out more.”

He wonders if Ansem’ll chance bringing it up. Even wonders if he dares. 

Ansem takes a sip of his tea. “The… parallels don’t escape me.”

His expression becomes rather fixed. “I believe I came here to discuss another matter,” he snaps.

He lets it drop; which is good. It means he can keep all of his body parts. “Which is?” He wants to make him say it. Even scowls.

“Has anyone told the boy? Has anyone sat him down and explained his parents are dead?”

“There’s no need,” Ansem says quietly. 

“Of course there is. He can’t live not knowing. He can’t begin to recover--”

“He saw them.” Ansem knots his hands and stares at him. “After the Unversed swarm. Aeleus heard him screaming.”

Even feels his heart settle, itchily, in his chest. “...I suppose that settles that.”

“Is that all you wished to speak of?”

“You know it isn’t. Someone has to decide his fate. And it seems that everything I say is taken with a grain of salt.” He was the one who brought it up earlier, but Even almost finds himself backtracking to it--which one of them has parented a child? 

“There is nothing to decide,” Ansem says simply. “His place is obviously here.”

“Here?” The blood rushes to Even’s face. “This is not a fit place for a child. He needs the opportunity to go to school--to make friends--”

“We can provide a far higher quality education, one that is on par with his brilliance. You did not get to speak with him… before all this horror,” Ansem says. “He is… he’s beyond precocious. You can see it in his eyes.”

All Even can see in the boy’s eyes is pain. “I must insist otherwise,” he continues. “He will have enough trouble adjusting. The best thing to do would be to get him into treatment, and find a loving family who can provide far more nurturing than we. Now that you’ve finally broken down that disgusting referendum barring homosexual adoption, there are so many--”

“Even.”

He’s made up his mind. Even may as well be speaking to a wall. He is just wasting his breath.

“His parents wanted to be apprentices to make a better world for him,” he says, gently. “I think they would find it a great comfort if we were to devote ourselves to the same.”

He shakes his head. “As a physician, I cannot condone this.”

“I’m afraid you don’t have the authority to make that decision,” Ansem says.

It will always be a bit galling to have Ansem override him. Just because he was elected, he thinks he knows everything. 

_ Ansem the Wise. _ None of those senators would ever believe his naivete. “I hope you trust me on this,” he says, a bit more gently. “We can give him so much more than an outsider. And if you doubt me…” A heavy sigh. “You think I have not considered the alternatives? Dilan and Aeleus have been asking all over town. There’s no other family.” He leans back in his chair, shifting the red stole around his neck. “I am… trying to draft a curriculum for Ienzo’s education. I would like your input. I also would not mind… any other advice you may have.” He smiles gently. “Think of this as… an opportunity.”

As if the boy could ever replace what he once had. “As you said. I don’t have the authority.”

* * *

There’s so much to be done, yet here Even is, dallying. The chaise seems to be holding him down, not the other way around. He is exhausted; physically, mentally. He used to find these arguments with Ansem challenging; now they are just tedious.

Things between them have never been the same since--

It does no good to wallow in these matters. He needs to work. 

He takes his coat from its hook by the door and slides it on. The smell of bleach is comforting, a sort of nothing smell. He heads down the hallway towards the staircase. Dilan must have been cooking; garlic and onion still hangs in the hall. He is trying to recall the last time he had a decent meal when he hears it. Soft, but unmistakable.

The boy is crying.

Even steels himself and tries to turn away, but he simply can’t. He goes over to the boy’s bedroom door, cracked to let in the nightlight in the hall. “Little one? What’s the matter?”

When he sees Even he flinches, curling tightly on himself. Even approaches him slowly, taking a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “It’s me, Even. We’ve met before. I didn’t think I was that forgettable.” His attempt at joking goes nowhere; Even was never good with humor. “May I sit near you?”

The boy says nothing, his one visible eye swollen and watery. He perches near him on the bed and offers him the cloth. After a moment, he snatches it, but rather than wipe at the tears he presses his face against the fabric. 

“Were you having a nightmare?” Even asks him. He’s not sure why he bothers; the boy likely won’t respond. “You know that’s quite alright. It’s okay to be scared.” He sounds like an idiot. “You know you are safe here? Aeleus and Dilan won’t let so much as a mouse inside the castle.”

The boy opens his mouth; for a second Even wonders if he might speak. But he only takes a deep breath.

He has no idea what to say. No idea how to make it better. He glances around the room. It’s minimally furnished; no toys, barely any clothing. Even makes a note to arrange for the boy’s possessions to be gathered from the parents’ home; one heartbeat later he realizes he’s going to have to be the one to do it. But he notices something on the desk (much too big for a boy that size); a storybook, roughly middle-grade. The boy sees him staring at it. “Do you want this? Do you want me to- to read it to you?”

The boy shakes his head, but holds out his hand. Even takes the book and gives it to him. 

“Let me get some light. Bad for your eyes.” He flicks on the lamp at the bedside table. Even figures he’s probably looking for the pictures. Very carefully, the boy opens to a page and looks down. If Even didn’t know better, he’d say the boy was reading; he’s much too young for something so advanced. He watches closely; he can see the boy’s eye moving slowly. “Can you read?” Even asks.

The boy gives him an odd look. 

“Did you know most people your age are just beginning to learn?”

Slowly, he shakes his head. 

“This is pretty advanced. Did you want something easier?”

He shakes his head again. At least they’re communicating in some small way, Even notes with relief. He can work with yes or no questions. “Did you want something… more difficult?”

For a second, but just one, the pain in the boy’s eyes retreats, replaced with something like a glimmer. Ansem is right. 

“I’ll be right back,” he says to the boy. “I’ll get you some more to read.”

He doesn’t have to go far. In one of the small libraries--one of the only ones with children’s books--he finds the ones for older readers. He chooses a few difficulty levels, and once, on impulse, grabs an adult one. Even takes the books back to the boy and places them on the dresser. The boy watches with something like apprehension and anticipation. 

“Try this,” he says, handing him the adult novel. “You may like it.”

The boy takes it from him. It’s almost comically large in his lap--is he merely small for his age? He flips right to the first chapter, a smooth, practiced notion. Even waits. He knows the boy can tell he’s being observed, but he doesn’t seem to mind much.

“You can understand all that?” Even asks. 

Slowly, hesitantly, a nod. 

Again, Even so wished the boy would speak, to get a grasp of his vocabulary. His heart is racing. He longs to test the boy, to see how much he knows and how much is raw intelligence. He forces himself to hold back, but before he can stop it, “Do you know how to write?”

The boy gives him a puzzled look. Even takes a pad and pen out of his pocket. Slowly, with less pleasure than the books, he takes the items. He holds the pen awkwardly, and then with great concentration, writes his name. This isn’t surprising; most five-year-olds knew this. But then in the same breath, the boy wrote out his whole address, replete with surname. The parents must have taught him in case he got lost; how clever. He seems to have wounded himself, tearing up again. Even gently takes the books and pen from him. “I know, little one,” he says. “I know it hurts.”

He knows more than he’d ever care to.

* * *

One thing is certain; the boy can write. Even isn’t sure how well. But this could be a tool that could help them communicate with him, should this period of silence go on.

“Selective mutism,” Dilan says, with a shake of his head. “Not uncommon in cases of trauma.” He walks over to the white board they’d all been wittering over, considers the equation, and changes out some numbers for others. Aeleus begins tediously working it out. “I am… flabbergasted, though. Does Ansem seriously think this is a good idea?”

“ _ Master _ Ansem,” Even corrects gently. Dilan rolls his eyes. “And I… am very much on your side, Dilan. I tried convincing him to find the boy a good home, but he wasn’t having it. He thinks he knows best. We are all too busy to raise a child. This place isn’t safe.” He noted, with horror, the many different hazards that existed in their residences alone; the windows aren’t screened in, for one. And the tubs are much too deep. 

“Nor do we  _ want _ to raise a child,” Dilan mutters. “If he wants to… indulge his parental instincts, that should be on him, not all of us. He should’ve just gotten a dog. Goodness knows we can use one.”

“You know how he gets when he’s made up his mind,” Even says drolly. 

Aeleus holds up the small board he is working on. “It doesn’t figure,” he says.

“Damn,” Dilan says. “I don’t suppose you have any opinions on the matter?”

“I think it could work if you swapped the imaginary for a radical.”

“Not that, you dolt.  _ Obviously. _ ”

Aeleus blinks. “I believe if the decision’s been made, then I have no right to comment on the matter.”

Even sits down. His feet are hurting. He feels as if he’s just gotten these shoes; have the soles worn out already? He pulls the elastic out of his hair, to readjust it, only to feel the band pop. He sighs heavily. “I need this compound to work,” he says. “Let’s start again.”

Dilan scoffs. “Why? What on earth are you going to use it for?”

“Something that concerns neither of you.”

Dilan looks at his watch. “Then  _ you _ can solve it,” he says bitterly. “Duty calls. As always.”

“Is it that time already?” They’ve been here for hours, blathering on and getting nowhere. “Goodness. The boy must be hungry.”

Dilan gives him an odd look, his violet eyes glinting. “Ansem wants a ward, he can feed one.”

Even shakes his head. “He’s been in with city council all morning. Trying to get them to reverse their stance on their veto.”

“They  _ vetoed _ the referendum?” Dilan asks. 

Even pales--Ansem told him that in confidence. “Don’t tell anyone I told you,” he says. “It wasn’t… public.”

“All our progress and we’re still run by a bunch of idiots,” Aeleus says calmly. 

“He’s king in title only,” Even agrees. “I must go.”

The boy is exactly where Even left him last night; nose deep in books. At least it is distracting him from his pain and grief. “Have you been here all morning?” he asks the boy. At least, he notes with relief, that his breakfast plate is clean. “Would you like something to eat?”

The boy seems distraught; he clutches the book.

Even chuckles, knowing that feeling well. “You can come back  _ after _ you eat,” he says. “You need to keep your blood sugar up. It helps you think more clearly.”

He considers this and, very seriously, nods. 

“Alright, then. You best come with me. I can’t keep serving you forever.”

The boy, on uncertain, unused legs, follows him across the hall to the kitchen. He warms some soup Dilan made, butters toast. The boy takes it without comment, eating quickly, Even is sure, so he can return. While he lifts his spoon, the boy flinches and switches hands. 

“Is your shoulder aching?”

He seems surprised Even noticed.

“I’d like to take a look at it,” he says. “I’m sure the stitches are uncomfortable. I can make that… better.” He can’t be sure if the boy fears needles; he was unconscious when Even initially doctored the wound. 

Again, a small and serious nod. Even takes him by the hand towards the hospital room, sits him on the bed. The boy takes off his shirt without being told, his mouth opening in a small O of pain. Even scrubs his hands and removes the bandages. The wound’s clean, the scars forming beautifully, though they’ll be quite noticeable. He takes a small pair of scissors. “This won’t hurt, but it might pull a bit,” he says. 

The boy doesn’t react as he removes the stitches; his eyes have again gone vacant, focusing grimly on the nylon sutures in the pan. Even smears the wound gently with a salve to promote healing, and covers it again.

“Better?” he asks.

The boy shrugs a little, as though testing it. He nods.

“You handled that bravely. Would you like a…” What? Candy? A sticker? Did they even have any of that?

There’s one thing they always have. “Would you like to go see Master Ansem?”

The boy nods again. As they walk towards his office, Even feels the boy slide his tiny hand into his. He feels something like a stab of pain, deep inside, and he has to bite down hard on the memory that wants to come.

He knocks on the door to Ansem’s study. He can just hear the tail end of a phone conversation-- “I will  _ not _ accept no for an answer. For any amount of dallying about, but not about  _ this. _ This is the  _ one _ thing I have authority to change without anyone else questioning me.” The gentle  _ ding _ of the phone clicking onto the receiver. “Who’s there?”

“Just a little guest,” Even says. He opens the door. Immediately Ansem’s demeanor changes, softening, his rust-colored eyes lighting up with a smile.

“Ienzo! Thanks for visiting!”

The boy seems almost unsure of how to react, but Even swears he can see the beginnings of a smile. “We got our stitches removed and were very brave,” Even says, feeling a bit of shame for the way he spoke, so babyish. 

Ansem crouches so he’s eye level with the boy. “That so?”

“Didn’t even flinch. Put up less fuss than Dilan when that erlenmeyer flask burst. If only all my patients were so good.”   
  
Ansem takes the boy’s tiny hand and gives it a squeeze. “Well I think that deserves a reward, don’t you? Have you ever had sea salt ice cream?”

The boy shakes his head. Ansem clucks his tongue. “That’s a shame. I think that needs to be fixed immediately. I think we can all use some fresh air, hm?”

Even starts a little. “We’ve none in the castle?”

“Why shouldn’t we go out? It’s a lovely day. What do you think, Ienzo?”

The boy thinks very hard. He nods once. 

“Then that settles that.” Ansem takes the boy’s hand. “Surely you’ll come with us, Even?”

Ansem’s gaze is unsettling him, wrapping a fist around his heart. Memory tugs. “Oh, I mustn’t, I’ve been trying to solve an equation for hours.”

“I see. Don’t want to lose mojo.” Ansem smiles. “I’ll bring some back for you. Though it may be gone if you’re not quick about it.” He winks. “Onward and upwards, Ienzo.” He begins whistling softly.

Even watches them leave, the fist around his heart squeezing tighter.  _ I will not think about this, _ he mutters to himself.  _ I will not-- _

* * *

He’s stuck. Again.

It’s not just the numbers that don’t make any sense; neither do the formulas. He’s increasingly convinced he’s just smearing goo around beakers and test tubes, wasting resources that could have a practical application. This isn’t even theory at the moment; it’s madness.

On paper it all makes sense; a being is a body, heart, and will. A body should be simple,  _ is _ simple. But whenever he tries his method compared to standard IVF, nothing is viable. All he needs is a cell, just one cell. If he can get this, everything will fall into place. If he can make this work, who knew how many lives could be saved?

“...You forgot,” Ansem says slowly, with a chuckle. “How long have you been here?”

He’s startled him; it takes Even a moment to compose himself. “Do forgive me,” he says. “I’ve… hit a wall.”

“Best take a break, then. You may get clarity when you revisit it.” He offers Even the ice cream bar, still in its wrapper. Even removes his goggles and gloves, washes his hands clean, though he’s done no work that dirtied them. 

“I do so hope this is only the second one you’ve had,” Even says.

Ansem shrugs.

“Should you hope to have a long tenure, you should take better care of yourself. The last thing we need is for you to go on insulin.”

Ansem laughs. “Pot, kettle, black. When  _ was _ the last time you left this castle, Even?”

He sighs. “...Touche.” 

“Shall we walk, then? You’ve nothing “cooking,” so to speak?”

“I wish.” He takes of his coat. “After you.  _ Sir. _ ”

“You know you needn’t call me that.” The breezeway, compared to the lab, is cool. “One of the… many things I’d like to accomplish is the demolition of these useless titles. I am a civil servant; nothing more.”

“You do deserve respect. You are my superior.”

“By luck and coincidence.” Ansem shakes his head. “Indeed, were you more extroverted yourself, you might have found yourself in this position.”

“...Balderdash. I detest politics.”

Another laugh. It’s a warm sound, like woodsmoke. Then, he sobers somewhat. The cool night air and the ice cream are making Even a bit cold. He should’ve kept the jacket on. “Even, are you… fulfilled, with what you do? I do not mean to open wounds, but I know you’ve gone through some upheavals. I wanted to… check in. Not as your superior, but as your friend.”

Even stares down at the ice cream, half-eaten. It’s no longer quite so sweet. “That is kind of you,” he says slowly. “I am… happy with my work. The rest will come if it’s meant to. I… do not wish to give too much away, but the project I am working on could do so much good. It could be the culmination of my career.”

“And you won’t give me a hint?”

“Not the slightest. You’re not that lucky.”

Ansem smiles. “I suppose not,” he concedes.

They’re on the veranda now. It’s starting to get dark. They pause at the railing, watching the pinpricks of light below.

“There is so much potential for this world,” Ansem says slowly. “So  _ very _ much. Our people don’t hunger, there’s not much crime. With the right reforms, we can give this next generation the tools they need not just to grow this world, but to visit… others.”

Even looks up, startled. “Don’t tell me you seriously believe there  _ are _ others,” he says. 

“Even, how can we not? You know the history, the tales of one vast world before it was fractured by darkness. There is evidence everywhere, if only you’re looking to see it.”

“Then how do you propose getting to one of these other  _ worlds _ ? And what then? What right have we to delve into such matters?”

Ansem squeezes his shoulder. “Yes, Even.  _ Exactly.” _

The warmth of Ansem’s palm seems to remain after he takes it away. Even brushes these thoughts aside. “I don’t know why you get so excited over what will surely be a bureaucratic nightmare. Good luck trying to get these people to understand. They barely accept the fact that some people love differently.”

Ansem sighs heavily. “It’s the old guard. They are… dying, or retiring. The new blood is always so much more accepting. Hopefully this will all one day be a horrible memory.”

“That will take far too long,” Even says, but without energy. “Must another generation suffer?”

“Not if I’ve anything to do with it.”

For a moment neither of them speak. 

Ansem clears his throat. Even’s not sure why, but he feels his heart stutter, the fist from before loosening the slightest. But Ansem’s words do not warm him. “I wish to take Ienzo on as my ward,” he says softly.

For too long Even does not know what to say. “You can’t be serious. This is… more than taking the boy in. Should you proceed with the adoption, Ansem, he will be your  _ son _ , legally, emotionally. Have you the time to nurture him the way he needs? You were right.” He feels heat rising in his face. “He… he’s brilliant. He can  _ read _ \--not just  _ Dick and Jane _ , or what have you, but  _ Shadow of the Morning Star. _ And he can write more than a child of that age. I… I implore you to reconsider. Not as your colleague, but as your friend who’s known you for years.”

Ansem stares at him. In the semidarkness, Even can’t discern his expression. “Would you feel this way if it were not… for the situation?”

He feels like he’s been punched. For a moment, Even is positive he will vomit. The vitriol comes out in his words instead. “How  _ dare _ you?” he spits.

“Even--I did not mean it that way--”

He turns and starts walking the other way, long confident strides that don’t make up for the fact that he’s fighting tears. He tries to swallow it down, swallow it all down, because none of this is productive. 

“Even, I’m sorry. I truly--”

He stops. His hair, with nothing to restrain it, hangs around his face like he’s some kind of lunatic. “Children are not playthings,” he spits. “They’re not pets. Everything you do has an impact.  _ Everything. _ ”

“I know. How can I not know this? I deal with consequences every day, Even. You may have had a human child, but  _ my _ child is this town. Every day, I make impossible decisions. Every day,  _ I  _ have to decide what’s right and what’s wrong.”

“Then why am I the one who’s been looking after him?” he asks. “Where have you been?” His heart is beating painfully fast.

“I had hoped this would help you--none of us have been able to reach you--”

“You don’t know what’s best for me.”

He expects Ansem to argue, but all he says is, “Do you?”

He clutches his elbows tightly, trying to choke down the wave of pain.

“I’m sorry,” Ansem says. “Truly.”

Even can’t look at him. He turns away. “I must go. Do what you wish. You always did.”

It’s a pain like rivers.

* * *

There’s a knock at his bedroom door. A dull, insistent pain beats the inside of his skull. “Go away,” he says to his assailant.

The response is another knock. “I do not wish to be bothered. Kindly leave.”

Another knock. Anger heats the pain inside of him, and he vaults off the bed with the intent of telling off  _ whoever it was _ . He gathers the words under his tongue, opens the door, and sees nothing.

Something tugs his free hand. Even looks down. It’s the boy. “...Little one?” he asks, trying to smooth and soften his face. “What are you doing here? Are you hungry?”

He shakes his head.

“Is your shoulder hurting you?”

Another no. 

“Then what can I help you with?”

He holds out his hand towards Even. With a sigh, he takes it. 

The boy leads him to the small library. “When did you come here?” Even asks him. The response was a shrug. “You haven’t been wandering on your own, have you?” Another shrug. “This place is far too big for you to be off on your own. You could get lost… and we might never find you again.”

The boy seems not to be listening. He crosses over to a shelf and points upwards. Even understands. He gestures to a certain volume, and the boy nods. 

“What on earth do you want with this?” he asks the boy, but hands him the legal volume anyway. The boy goes over to one of the chairs, hops up, opens the book, and begins searching. Even reads over his shoulder, noting the speed and almost the  _ grace _ with which he finds the section on “adoption.” “I suppose Master Ansem told you, then.” God, the bastard is really going through with it. “How do you feel about this?”

The boy looks up at him, considers this, and nods once.

“Wouldn’t you rather have a nice family in town? Some parents who--”

The boy’s shaking his head, the pain in his eyes leaching onto his face.

Even crouches down to his level. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

He nods once, blinking tears out of his eyes. Almost automatically, Even reaches out to wipe them away; both he and the boy seem startled by his touch. “If you’re sure,” he says softly. “But if you’re going to be here indefinitely, we need to figure out some system so  _ you _ can talk to  _ me. _ Have you ever spoken?” Likely too complex a question for the boy to understand, but something in Even seems to intuit his understanding.

The boy nods.

“Is it that you won’t, or can’t?”

He thinks about this. He holds up two fingers to indicate the latter.

Even considers this. “I’m sorry, I’m going to touch you,” he says. He feels the boy’s throat, seeking some irregularity, finding none. “Would it be alright with you if I took a closer look? With machines? It won’t hurt, I promise.”

The boy shrugs.

“Well, then. Come with me, Ienzo.”

So that’s that, then. He is no longer an aqueous entity, no longer just a noun. Only then does Ienzo become real to Even.

* * *

"...Sit right here."

Ienzo looks so small against the table, and he shivers. He looks at the x-ray machine with a morbid curiosity. 

"I'm going to take a picture of your throat. Just to see if everything's working the way it should." He guides the machine into place. "Don't move. It'll only be a moment." Ienzo barely stirs, staring at the ceiling as though he's done this a hundred times. Even frowns. "Ienzo, has this happened to you before? Where you were talking and all of a sudden you couldn't?"

Slowly, he nods. "I do wish you had told me." He takes the shot, because, well, the boy's already in position. "I can take a look at your medical records. You've been to doctors, yes?"

* * *

It takes a little bit of digging, to get Ienzo's records, but working under the king does give one certain advantages. Ienzo has been to many doctors, it turns out, for a variety of reasons. Headaches, sensitivity to noise and textures and smells, anxiety, panic attacks, and the wavering ability to speak. Nearly all of them noted his brightness, as well as his shyness. Reading the notes, it becomes obvious to Even--

_ Patient, while bright ( _ he does so detest physicians who use that "while" as if they go hand in hand) _ seems to be somewhere on the autism spectrum. Referred parents to a special education facility and offered medication. No further action needed. _

Things have just become more complicated.

* * *

Even finds himself reading about it voraciously. To help Ienzo communicate is a problem to solve; rather than his messy, theoretical work. Autistic children can develop selective mutism, sometimes as a trauma response; Dilan was right. But there's no easy way to break the cycle except, perhaps, through therapy, and Even's absolutely not qualified. He figured manual language would be the most useful, but none of them have the time to learn. When he asks Ienzo if he wants to try that, all he gets is a shrug.

Ienzo solves the problem for him. He approaches Even in his bedroom and plunks down a small whiteboard, the same they use in their work. A pen clatters down next to it. "...Where did you get this? ...Never mind. I don't want to know." Hopefully it had nothing important on it. "So you can write?" He gives back the board and sees him struggling.

_ Yes. _ The writing is messy and childish but legible.

"We must work on your penmanship."

_ OK. _

* * *

Before this, there's a matter of things being settled. Considering Ansem's status, the court hearing is basically ceremonial. Who wouldn't trust him? Such a sweet and caring man to take in the poor child, didn't you hear? It takes all of twenty minutes and three signatures for Ienzo to become Ansem's son. They celebrate with ice cream; Even finds himself scrubbing the blueness out of Ienzo's clothes. Brilliant as he is, he  _ is _ five.

They take the remainder of Ienzo's things, as well as anything that might be important--a few photos, some documents. Ansem places the home in a trust under Ienzo's name, should he decide he wants it when he's able to make such decisions. His parents were comfortable, not rich; there is not much else to take care of.

They do not take him, as it would doubtless be traumatizing; Ansem tells him afterward, gently. He can't look Even in the eyes, still, but for Ienzo Even will be civil. The child does not need more stress; neither does he.

Ienzo scribbles something feverishly on the board.  _ What about the plants? _

"The…" Ansem frowns.

Ienzo exhales heavily, erases.  _ Her  _ _ plants. _

Even does not have the heart to tell him that in the weeks that passed, the plants all died; even the heartier, desert blooms. He wonders briefly if they can feel their missing caretaker; but they're just plants, after all.

So why does he find himself lying? "The neighbors are taking care of them," he says. "But would you also like to learn a little bit about what makes them grow?” 

Even never studied botany thoroughly; that was Aeleus. Aeleus and Ienzo work together in the greenhouses, dirt and bulbs, propagating stems, whispering in the science of it, the  _ Mendel’s peas _ and  _ punnett squares. _ Ienzo seems to find something soothing in the work, and Even understands why; learning his mother’s craft must be something like catharsis. Anything to tide him until they could find a proper therapist.

And so Ienzo’s education begins.

* * *

The boy’s brilliant; Even’s never seen anything like it. He reads and he reads and he reads and he seems to remember nearly everything. Facts, numbers, all seem to make sense to him. Even sees him blooming slowly. 

“He’s… phenomenal,” Even says to Ansem. “I knew he was… but to see the proof, as it were--”

Ansem smiles. “You do see why I couldn’t let him pass us by?”

He sighs. “I still… disagree. But I believe we may be able to make this work. The one thing that I do not wish to compromise… He needs therapy, Master. The studies and the gardening make a wonderful distraction, but you do not live near us. I can… hear him, at night. He has nightmares. And… sometimes I’ll be teaching him, when all of a sudden he breaks down in tears. I’m positive it’s no temper tantrum.” Even’s aware of how grammatically improper his sentences are. He bites the inside of his cheek. 

Ansem nods. “I agree,” he says. “I will… see if my peers know of anyone qualified. We also have to consider… the other aspect of Ienzo. Not that there’s anything wrong with it.”

“Of course not. His needs will be… different.” He stands, strands of hair slipping free from his worn elastic. “Please consider it.”

Ansem touches his shoulder. “Believe me when I say it’s my priority.”

When he pulls it away, Even again feels warm. “I shall see you later, then.”

“Yes. I’m going to be tutoring Ienzo, so I may as well join you all for dinner.”

“Yes.”

He gives Even another solid once-over. “Are you alright?”

“I have been… tired,” Even says. He forces a smile. 

“These things do take a great deal of energy, do they not?”

“For you especially. Between your work, the research, and now the child--”

“I’m managing. I always have. Best do it while we’re still mostly young, eh?”

Even smooths the wrinkles in his jacket. “Quite. Well, I take my leave.”

* * *

For a little over six months, life continues in this vein; juxtaposing research with childcare exhausts Even to no end. More than once he falls asleep at the dinner table, only to have Dilan tease him mercilessly.

"One would think he's your ward, not Master's," he says, with a nasty smirk. 

The thing is, Dilan's right. Ansem devotes as much time as he can for the boy, and Ienzo is clearly enamored with him. But two or three hours here and there isn't enough to cover the scrapes, the nightmares, the sicknesses.

Which is why for Even the memories become harder to avoid; they creep up in his dreams, and he wakes up, an emotional and illogical wreck. But he needn't burden the others with his woes. His absence prior to Ienzo's appearance was telling enough.

Ienzo continues learning in leaps and bounds; quickly they realize that they can't possibly expect to hold him to a grading system. But while he engages highly in their STEM work, he still never stops reading fiction.

"I believe he could benefit from some training in the humanities," Even says tiredly. He's been coming to Ansem's study more and more, less for his own cajoling of resources than for Ienzo. "He loves stories. He'd enjoy it immensely."

"We might make a writer of him yet." Ansem chuckles. "Leave it to Ienzo to want to learn the one thing we have no expertise in."

"He's certainly stubborn as all get out." He rarely takes no for an answer and pursues what he wants with recklessness, regardless of what Even or the others ask of him; more than once Even's had to scold him for trying to get into the freezer for more ice cream. All he ever gets in response is a scowl. "I don't suppose you've made any progress?"

Ansem sighs and runs a hand through his hair, mussing the neat slick. "I'm afraid the situation is more dire than I realized. My predecessor failed to mention in her reports the state of mental health care in this city, leaving me with piles of unanalyzed numbers. Needless to say, we're in something of a crisis."

"So there's no one?"

"No one other than overworked, under-educated social workers. All they'll tell him is to "hang in there!"" Ansem grimaces. "I'm trying to put the groundwork in place--but you know how slowly these things go. Lives are at stake--more than just his."

"But his is the one I witness day in and day out. There has to be something that can be done."

Ansem sighs. "Have you spoken to him about it?"

"Interpersonal relationships are not one of my strengths.” 

"I'm not so sure. The boy clearly cares for you. He writes about you all the time."

Even raises an eyebrow. "I do not believe it for a moment."

"Believe it, or not."

Even frowns, feeling his face heat. If he were reading Ansem's tone right, the king might just be… jealous. "He cares for you too," Even remarks. "You should see how excited he is to spend time with you."

Ansem laughs. "I don't suppose when you accepted your role here you figured coparenting into it."

It's the word choice, "coparenting" versus "childcare", that throws Even off. "Er--no." He looks into the cup of tea Ansem offered him, still untouched. "Though I never expected you, of all people, to desire a family."

Ansem shrugs, dropping his eyes. "I had never considered it," he admits. "But I also know enough to trust in the ways of fate, should it hand something to me."

"Fate." He shakes his head. Learned scholar, and Ansem believes in that nonsense. "In which case, it surely has a sense of irony."

There’s a pause, one long enough for Even to consider taking his leave. Finally Ansem says, “It may help you to speak of such things too.” His eyes are so gentle.

Even is too tired to come up with the Pavlovian rage he’s developed. “I do not desire my personal life to intermingle with my work,” he says instead. He sips the tea to avoid saying anything else; it tastes terrible, and he flinches. 

“Even, how long have you and I known one another?”

“Too long, apparently,” he says.

“The way we all live and work--there’s no room to isolate parts of oneself.” He reaches out across the desk, takes Even’s hand, and gives it a squeeze. It’s the touch more than anything, unexpected and warm, that shakes him, brings the wetness into his eyes. He takes his hand back.

“I should go,” he says.

“Even--” 

“How many times do I have to make this clear? I do not wish to speak of it, and considering you are my superior, you should respect that professional boundary. It’s unbecoming.”

Ansem sighs heavily. “You’re right. I apologize.”

“I must go. It’s time for one of my lessons with Ienzo.” He turns. It hurts when he swallows. “Good day.” He shuts the door to Ansem’s study, but not quickly enough to blot out his parting words--

“I hate seeing you in pain.”

* * *

Pain is not useful; so he keeps it at arm’s length. Like any wound, left alone it would eventually heal. Anyhow, he has ways to fill his time, more than he thought possible. On top of his nebulous research for this new project, he is occasionally required to assist the others (it’s only polite) should they need his expertise. Dilan, in particular, loves to waste Even’s time, having him check and recheck his equations. To a degree Even understands this need for things to be watertight--in civil engineering the slightest thing off could literally take lives--but he finds it utterly exhausting. Aeleus’s own work--architecture plans for the further expansion of the city--is of course stuck in a bureaucratic backlog, awaiting votes from the council and populace alike.

Even admires the way Aeleus always makes himself useful; in this period he takes over Dilan’s guard shifts, and looks after Ienzo. Even believes he can sense something of a bond forming between the two. Aeleus always did have endless patience. He works in the garden with Ienzo, cultivating the blooms the boy bred. One such afternoon he happens to pass by and sees Ienzo on Aeleus’s shoulders, trying to catch butterflies. “That’s a  Danaus plexippus,” Even hears him explain. “A monarch butterfly. They migrate here this time each year. That’s why I make sure there’s so much milkweed. It’s what the babies eat, where the adults lay their eggs. I think you’ve got one. Be gentle, okay? We just want to look at it. Don’t touch its wings.”

It’s the most Even’s heard Aeleus say in one go, he realizes. He approaches slowly, so as not to disturb them. Aeleus sets Ienzo down and takes the net from him. 

“Look at the patterns. You can tell by the shape of the wings this one’s female. The males’ wings point more downwards. Nobody’s sure exactly why they migrate. But not every mystery is meant to be solved by us. You ready to let it go?” Aeleus opens the net, watching the butterfly go up, and up--Ienzo waves to it. “It’s going to go join its friends.”

Ienzo turns slightly and notices Even. He smiles a little.

Aeleus nods. “I figure a little taxonomy couldn’t hurt.”

“Nothing learned is wasted,” Even says. 

“Everything is alright?”

Is there something on his face? In his eyes? “Oh, yes. I was taking a little stroll. Forgive my intrusion.”

* * *

Why can’t he figure this out?

It’s the closest he’s gotten since beginning this fool’s errand--the cell actually fertilized, but it did not begin to undergo mitosis, quickly degraded, and died. All of his calculations support it living in these conditions. Something’s missing, and he’s no idea what.

He’s pondering the dead cell yet again when he hears his door bang open. “Come in, why don’t you,” he says sourly.

Dilan’s in his guard uniform, his face flushed, sweaty. “He’s not in here with you?” he asks, a trace of panic in his voice.

Even raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been alone all morning. What on earth is the matter?”

He’s breathing hard. Even goes over to the mini-fridge and pours him a glass of water. Dilan drinks it in one swallow. “We can’t find the boy. He’s disappeared.”

If the castle is full of places for small children to hide, then the city might as well swallow him whole. A sharpness tugs at Even’s chest, a hot flush of fear. “He was supposed to be with Ansem this morning. Ienzo must have slipped away when he turned his back.” He throws aside his lab coat. “Let’s go.”

They search for hours, the three of them; they get some of the cleaners to assist as well. It feels like vanity, to keep calling his name--could he even respond? What if Ienzo were hurt, or in danger? Could he scream? They pore over the castle for what seems like an eternity, checking every wardrobe and closet, the gaps below the balconies, the strange tricks of architecture. He’s nowhere to be found.

“Let’s try town. Maybe someone’s seen him,” Dilan hedges.

Even wonders if this is all in vain. Finally a shopkeeper admits to seeing a silver-haired boy in the clothing Even left out for him this morning, but she says that when she tried to speak to him, he ignored her. They follow the trail out into the residential district. It’s there they find him, finally, crouching in a patch of flowers. Even runs over to him. “Oh thank god,” he says, over and over again. “Are you alright? Are you hurt?” He gives Ienzo a once-over and finds with immense relief that, aside from a scraped knee and some dirt, the boy is unharmed. Ienzo seems shaken; again his eyes are vacant. “Did someone hurt you?”

He shakes his head weakly. He gestures over Even’s shoulder. It’s the house. Of course. He must’ve tried to come home. 

“Oh, little one, why didn’t you just ask if you wanted to come here? We’ve been worried sick, looking for you. You shouldn’t be out on your own.”

Ienzo sniffles a little, his eyes watering. His hands tremble. He points to the pad sticking out of Even’s pocket, and he hands it to him.  _ Why did you lie about the plants? _

“The--” It clicks. “Dilan, take a look at the house.” He nods and turns towards the door. 

Ienzo keeps scribbling.  _ The pots are all empty. You didn’t give them away. They died. _

“I--” It feels terrible, to be caught in this lie. “Little one, by the time we got here it was already too late. I didn’t have the heart to tell you. You already lost so much.”

Ienzo seems to not know how to respond; he gives Even back the pen and pad.

“The door’s still locked, but it looks like he crawled in through the window,” Dilan says. “I’ve secured it.”

The boy is so deflated now, so exhausted, tears running disjointedly down his face. He does not fight when Even picks up him; he lays against him limply. Once they are finally back at the castle, Even runs him a bath and puts him in bed. In all this time Ienzo does not try to communicate. Finally, Even concedes. “Ienzo, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. But do you understand why I did it?”

The boy turns on his side, away from Even. 

He sighs heavily. “Try to get some rest.”

His own body is so heavy, so unwieldy. He drags himself slowly to his quarters. He needs sleep more than anything; perhaps a stiff drink as well. Normally such substances are out of his realm of interest, as he tries to think as clearly as possible. But tonight he needs to think a little less. He reaches into the cabinet for the cheap bottle of whiskey Dilan gave him one birthday, finds it mostly empty, and gives up. Tea will have to do.

Even feels strangely numb. He probes the sensation idly. He knows he should be concerned; sadness is one thing, numbness could be pathological. Which is the last thing he needs. He realizes that he, too, is rather filthy, from all the digging in the near unused parts of the castle. But he cannot find the strength to go bathe. Cannot find the strength to do anything, it seems.

There’s a knock at the door. He does not respond. Best let them think he’s asleep. The thought of crawling in bed while so dirty appalls him. Perhaps he’ll just sleep in this chair. 

The door opens. “Even? Are you awake?”

Ansem. He takes a deep breath.

And finds himself yelling. It’s a surprise to him, too. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Searching like the rest of you--”

“He was with you, he was supposed to be with you!”

“I turned my back for a moment to take a call--”

“Do you know what could have happened?” His spit tastes like copper. “He could’ve--fallen out a window, or down the stairs, or someone could have taken him. He’s a  _ child _ , Ansem. You can’t expect him to know these things. Why on earth weren’t you paying attention? I didn’t  _ ask _ for any of this. I didn’t--”

He notes how haggard Ansem looks; his shoulders sag. “Even. My friend. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry’s not good enough.” He can feel the heat in his face. “Now leave me be.”

“Even--”

“ _ Get out. _ ”

The tone of his voice is enough, and Ansem flees. He drops himself back into the chair, wretchedness choking him. And promptly bursts into tears.

It feels strange to cry, after putting it off for so long. Alien. Inhuman.

* * *

He gives Ienzo space, after that. Even does not know how else to apologize. He leaves a book for Ienzo to read, one he liked as a boy. Ienzo seems to tolerate his presence, but the tentative bond they built seems to have weakened.

No matter. The boy is not his son. His opinion of Even should not matter.

He turns back to his work, back to the walls that face him in his experimentation. He makes careless mistakes, misses errors he wouldn't have normally. Even feels unwell.

Something is missing.

So he reads. He turns away from numbers, towards a story that ultimately doesn’t matter. He understands why Ienzo reads so much. It’s an easy way out. He’s delved into one of these volumes in the sitting room when he hears the voice.

“Even?”

Startling. Unfamiliar. He looks up slowly and sees Ienzo.

“It’s back,” the boy says simply, and leaves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -insert Ian McEwan joke here-
> 
> It's me again BACK ON MY BULLSHIT
> 
> What started as a "short" fic from Even's perspective during the BBS-era human experiments ended up becoming a 96.6K epic about guilt, what it means to atone and if it's even possible, found family, and finding oneself after total devastation. Ya know, the us.
> 
> It's not necessary to have read the other BtE stories to understand this one, but the lives of these characters are so intertwined, and they're so influenced by one another, that of course there's going to be some spillover (also I'm a hack). 
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing Even--he's so delightfully complicated and eccentric. I hope you like reading it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second year of Ienzo's life at the castle brings a great deal of trial and error, and threatens to dredge up the pain of Even's past. A young man arrives in Radiant Garden who will change everything.
> 
> I sincerely hope you all have a fantastic holiday this upcoming week, regardless of what you celebrate!

Ienzo has just turned six. He’s been at the castle for most of a year.

Aeleus is icing the simple white cake when Even goes to get his morning coffee. “You’re spoiling the boy,” he says in lieu of greeting. “Ansem gives him more than enough sugar with all the ice cream.”

Aeleus shrugs. “It’s not a birthday without cake.”

“Indeed, when presented with such things when I was younger, I nearly went feral,” Dilan says. “Though sugar does not seem to affect his countenance.”

“Not much does.” 

“It’s worth celebrating, that he’s speaking,” Aeleus says. He puts the frosting knife in the sink. “Maybe we can encourage him to talk more.”

He still does not speak much, even now. His sentences are short, plain, often monosyllabic. At least they no longer need to rely on the whiteboard. 

But now that he speaks, his nightmares have heft, sound. Even can hear him cry for them. It never hurts any less.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Dilan says. Ienzo appears, still in pajamas, rubbing his eyes. “Happy birthday.”

He blinks. “That’s today?”

Even chuckles. “I figure today we can do something you like. Play, or perhaps go outside?”

Ienzo opens the fridge door and takes out a juice box. “No thank you,” he says politely. “I want to finish my book.”

“Anything for the prince, eh,” Dilan says. He’s taken to calling Ienzo that; despite the fact that he and Ansem have no blood ties and that “king” is an elected title. “If you go outside you can get  _ more _ books, you know. Not just this dusty old tosh.”

This grabs his attention. 

“I’ll even buy you one as a present.”

Ienzo turns pink. “Thank you.”

Dilan smiles. “Why it is my pleasure. Go get dressed. We can leave after breakfast.”

He retreats to his room quickly. Even puts up oatmeal. “That’s kind of you,” he says.

“He needs exercise. It’s not normal to be cooped up all day.”

“Dilan spoils the boy, but I can’t?” Aeleus asks dryly. “The double standards.”

Even laughs a little. “Such is the way of life.”

He returns to his lab. He had success with another fertilization; this one actually divided twice before dying. What was the difference? He doesn’t think he did anything differently. During all of his medical school studies, he did not recall IVF to be so finicky.

This isn’t the same thing. It’s a vehicle. 

He studies the corpses of the cells under blacklight, trying to find anything that might illuminate the truth.

* * *

Ansem approaches him now, not the other way around. Even would be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy the power. “Sorry to intrude,” he says.

Even looks up from the chaise and decides to be nice. “Nothing to intrude. I was mending Ienzo’s coat. He’s growing so quickly, I had to let down the hem.” They can buy clothes at the shops, but not many vendors sell lab coats in children’s sizes. They’re teaching Ienzo general chemistry; he needs to have protection. 

“You’re sure? He’s awfully small.”

He hums idly. “He’s on the bottom end of average,” he admits. “I have a feeling Ienzo will always be relatively petite. But he eats plenty, and Dilan introduced him to the library in town, which is an incentive to walk.”

“...He goes on his own now?” Ansem asks. He sits without being invited.

Even pauses slightly in his stitching. “How old were you when you ran your first errand?” he asks instead. “He has to be back in half an hour, otherwise we take away the books. Funny. For most children reading is punishment.” He holds up the jacket, checking for evenness. “Can I help you with something?”

He picks up the book he’s carried in. It’s an odd size, old, the cut of the paper uneven. “I… admit I still do not know anything about which you’re working. But I know you have a body problem. I wonder if this might help.”

He eyes it derisively. “Not exactly cutting edge science, is it?”

Ansem chuckles. “No, but… I’ve spoken with a new… friend, and I wonder if this is food for thought.”

Even takes the book from him. The font is ancient, hard to read. “ _ Mysticism of the Heart? _ Sounds a bit… Romantic.”

Ansem shakes his head. “It’s nothing to do with feelings. Well, not quite. The author was a sorcerer… oh, many years ago. She studied the heart.”

“...As have I. As have we all.”

“The  _ meta _ physical heart, Even.” He seems exasperated. “I find myself… intrigued, as well. I was up all night reading it.”

“...That so?” He strokes the cover, the soft, crumbling leather. 

“If you… want to make something living, you have to understand the forces behind it. At least, that’s how I see it.”

“None of this is proven,” Even says, but despite himself he can feel his mind stirring, the block loosening. 

“Maybe not with science. Maybe not with black and white.”

“Consider my interest… piqued.”

* * *

Like Ansem, he finds himself engrossed in every page; he takes copious notes. The text is hard to read, from the font to the fact that it is an older dialect of their language. But the ideas behind it are fascinating, and not just from a scientific standpoint.

Everyone  _ knows _ a person is made of a body, heart, and will; but nobody understands the latter two, how they function. Nobody can test something so abstract. But if he can figure it out… or at least start to get there… maybe it will mean something for the dying cells smeared on his slides.

He can feel an excitement rising in him, an eagerness, a passion, that he hasn’t experienced in some time. He’s finally getting somewhere. He photocopies the book to have as reference, and without a word, gives it to Aeleus.

Within two weeks none of them can shut up about it. Ienzo watches them discuss it, warily, another fantasy story in his hands. Even finds himself digging through the libraries all throughout the castle for more--there has to be more. But everything else he finds about the heart is vague, at best. Limited. A single line in a dictionary. He bites the bullet and begins looking towards texts of religion and philosophy as well, but unlike  _ Mysticism of the Heart _ , it is all waffling.

The sorcerer who crafted the book spent her whole life studying the heart. After apprenticing under a master magician, she spent years crafting spells to look within--to feel the heart, what it might mean. She asked as many people as she dared (it was a time and place where magic was viewed as heresy, so Even can’t help but admire her nerve) if she, too, could look within their hearts. She wrote out each as a case study, but her major conclusions were as follows:

  * Hearts are not mere physical matter. They are made of two forms of metamatter, heretoafter deemed “light” and “darkness.” Like yin and yang, they were not necessarily good and evil, but rather seemed to have certain qualities: light was associated with feeling, healing, and nurturing, while darkness was associated with power, knowledge, and a desire to better oneself rather than the collective.
  * Hearts are about “feeling”, about aqueous aspects of identity.
  * The presence of bonds seem to make a heart stronger or weaker, depending on their health.
  * Stronger individuals could always produce more and fulfill themselves more. 



Even had, of course, studied darkness and light; but they had been viewed mostly as pejoratives, things that were intangible. If this is right--this dusty old tome from who knows how long ago--it’s so much more literal than they ever could have guessed.

* * *

He is trying to draft ways to explore this more clearly when Ienzo finds him. Without a single word, he places a book on Even’s lap. “...What’s this?” Even asks him.

“It talks about hearts.”

Even examines it. It’s a fairy story; one from Ansem’s study. He feels a swell of something like pride when he realizes that Ienzo likely took it without permission. “A fantasy story?” he asks.

Ienzo shrugs. “They talk about dark and light.”

There’s no point on waiting for him to elaborate. “I will… examine it in more detail,” he says, shunting it to the bottom of his list.

Ienzo begins to leave, but then turns. “And magic,” he says.

Even furrows his brows. Acting on impulse, he opens the storybook Ienzo left behind.

Well, hell.

* * *

It all causes a massive dissonance; how much  _ lore _ , nebulous and malleable, actually has more truth in it than they all think?

As a man of science, and yes, he thinks, reason, how can he possibly believe it, when this whole time he only believed what could be proven with numbers?

Even’s mind slivers into pieces: the part of him invested in his experiment; the part of him beginning to play into this heart nonsense; and the part of him that looks after Ienzo. Because the boy really does need looking after.

He’s still not well--with the absence of proper treatment, he can never  _ be _ well. No longer trusting only Ansem’s word, Even takes a look at his predecessor’s reports--Ansem’s office is so disorganized, he will never notice if these things go missing for a few hours--and discovers to his horror that Ansem wasn’t embellishing at all.

The shift in Radiant Garden’s economy from manufacturing to STEM brought unprecedented progress. It increased their food yields, meaning nobody went hungry; it gave them technology and medicine to save lives, to make life in general easier. But with that shift meant a loss in other ways of other studies; they became neglected. Namely, the humanities. And under these older referendums, psychology was not deemed a hard science.

The people are feeling the strain. This, on top of the cultural stigma that comes with seeking help. Not so many students are studying the subject--none that will pursue the accreditation, anyway. Meaning with a dying and retiring population of therapists, there’s increasingly nowhere to turn to. 

It isn’t just psychology, either. Even doesn’t have the time to crunch the numbers, but with the arts and humanities slowly being neglected, Radiant Garden is going through a slow cultural death. It upsets him more than he thought possible.

Perhaps this is why, after one of Ienzo’s nightmares, he does more than leave him be. 

It’s almost a routine at this point. It’s clear that Ienzo has no control of himself during these spells; as soon as he wakes up, he tries his utmost to quiet the cries, so as not to disturb the rest of them. More upsetting yet.

Even brings him a cup of weak tea with honey, a cool cloth for his face. “...Are you alright?” he asks the boy. He has no idea where to begin. “How do you… feel?”

Ienzo looks at him as though he couldn’t have asked a stranger question.

He tries again, feeling rapidly out of his depth. “Are you afraid?”

He sniffles. “No. I… see them.”

“In your dreams?”

“All the time.” His small hands tremble when he takes the teacup. “I know they’re… dead.”

“Yes,” Even says. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t… remember. Except for…” He touches his shoulder. “Did I make it up? Those monsters.”

“...No.”

He considers this. “They ate them?”

Even flinches without meaning to. 

Ienzo interprets this as a confirmation. “They ate them.”

“It is never… easy, to lose someone.” The ever-present ache around his heart tightens. “We’ve… tried measures, to get rid of them.” It doesn’t help that the Unversed population is almost impossible to track; but this isn’t Even’s purview. “We won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. 

“It’s okay to miss them,” Even says. “You know this, yes?”

Slowly, Ienzo nods. “Where are they?”

“We… had them cremated shortly afterwards. While you were recovering.”

He shakes his head, and repeats the question.

“Oh… well… there’s no clear answer.” He clears his throat. “Some people believe that they go to a heaven, or an afterworld. Others believe that their souls are reincarnated into other people, or animals. Some think that they… merely go to sleep.”

He thinks about this. “Is it peaceful?”

Even’s heart about breaks. “Yes,” he says softly. “It’s very peaceful.”

“...Okay,” he says, and shrugs. “As long as they’re okay.”

“If you would like, I can… make a space for you to mourn. With the… mortuary tablets.”

“No thank you,” he says. “I’m tired now. Good night.”

* * *

Even does not know how else to broach the subject, but the conversation reveals him to be something of a hypocrite. How can he possibly teach Ienzo how to grieve when he refuses to grieve his own losses?

But he can’t begin the process and not end it; it would be continual, it would take work. It would distract him for his research and possibly incapacitate him for some time. He couldn’t give in to that urge now, not when he is so close to a solution. This is what’s been missing, he’s sure. Something… that can’t be created literally. But to move forward first he needs to understand more about hearts, and how they relate to their people. 

“Master? Forgive me for intruding.”

Ansem looks up at him wearily. “Oh… hello.”

“Are you alright?” he asks, without meaning to.

“I’m merely tired. I’ve got… more arguments on my hands. It’s hard to find the budget to jumpstart a mental health program without taking away other things--and none of my  _ colleagues _ can stand any of my suggestions.”

“I’ve no idea why you decided to go into politics.”

“Consider me a fool for trying to enact change.” Ansem sighs. “What is it you need?”

Even folds his hands together. “I don’t need more resources, but I was hoping to… reallocate some things,” he says. “We--Aeleus and Dilan too--would like to investigate the matters of the heart more scientifically. It would mean certain projects would have to wait, but… we all feel a passion for it, and I can’t pretend that’s meaningless.”

“...Yes,” Ansem says. “I… feel the same way about it. Finding truths about life itself… would make my work feel a lot less frivolous.”

“I can draw up a budget--”

“No need.” Ansem smiles. “Do what you must.”

* * *

So that’s it, then. 

They need a workspace, one where they could all gather. There’s space in one of the lower levels, near the castle’s CPU; the maintenance techs will not be happy to deal with their comings and goings, but Even could care less. It is a bit isolated, but that also means it will be quiet.

It has been a long time since the four of them worked together on something, since shortly after graduate placement. And truly they had never done it like  _ this. _

Dilan surveys their office space with distaste. “...Quite sterile, isn’t it? No natural light.” Aside from two offices, the space is completely open; Ienzo spends quite some time running to and fro, and as he scarcely does this, they indulge him. 

“...Is it? I could rather care less about decor.” Even opens one of the boxes and gently begins unpacking his gear into a cabinet. 

“I’ll bring some plants,” Aeleus says. 

“Well, we have what we need; where do we begin?” Dilan asks. 

“Ansem started this. Maybe he has some clue.” There’s a loud crash; Ienzo ran clean into the sharp end of one of the metal tables and clutches his knee. He does not cry, but grits his teeth in silence. “Oh, goodness. What have you done to yourself?” At least he had the good sense to place his first aid kit towards the top of the pile. He tends to the small cut. “Be  _ careful _ , alright? There are more dangerous things in this room than just a table.”

He shrugs, and drops his eyes. “I got excited,” he says.

* * *

It  _ is _ all terribly exciting. It shouldn’t feel this strange to have Ansem back in the room with them. They sit clustered around the worktables, brainstorming or trying to; Ienzo studies, supposedly working out some math problems Dilan set him. 

“There must be a way to unify these two methods,” Ansem says. “The science, the magic. Why shouldn’t it be some combination of both of them?”

Dilan all but rolls his eyes. “That’s all fine and dandy, if it were not for the fact that none of us have any training.”

“Couldn’t we learn?” Aeleus asks. “The… manuscript details how these things were done.”

Dilan twists the ends of one of his braids. “...Teach a machine how to do magic,” he says slowly. “It’s so insane that it might actually work.”

“A machine?” Ansem asks.

“Well, the manuscript also mentions how exhausting such spellwork is--not to mention, how advanced. We can’t afford to wear ourselves down. Nor do we have the time to study such things for so long.”

Even thinks about it. “You may be onto something.”

* * *

It takes time, and it takes all of them; fall wears into winter. The castle has always been drafty and damp, but here in the basement it’s basically unbearable. They huddle around space heaters, wander around in too many layers. Dilan spends hours--weeks--poring over page after page of blueprints, trying to figure out how to make it work. 

It isn’t as if Even can sneak away to try to work on his own projects, so he focuses on Ienzo. The boy isn’t perfect; he does trip up and make mistakes and occasionally can’t wrap his head around things. He has more aptitude for some subjects than others, favoring biology over chemistry and psychology over math. Even can’t help it; maybe he can’t give Ienzo the help he needs, but maybe he can give the boy the tools to eventually help himself.

Intellectually, he’s more advanced than many. But he’s still a child, with all the trappings of one. When he sees the snow on the ground, he’s tempted. So Aeleus takes him out to play. He returns delighted, pink-faced and soaked, and for the first time Even can recall he doesn’t have a nightmare.

Then he gets sick.

The castle’s something of a germ vacuum. Of course the moment Ienzo’s vulnerable something sneaks in. At first it seems merely like a cold; he sneezes over his studies, needs to be reminded to cover his mouth. Even gives him cold medicine, keeps an eye on him; all he knows is that he can  _ feel _ this is something more, and his reliance on that instinct embarrasses him. When the boy begins audibly shivering Even takes him upstairs to bed. Ienzo’s fever rises dramatically--he’d forgotten how bad, how terrifying it can be in small children. Even plies him with fluids, with an antiviral. He just has to wait, to mop the poor child’s sweaty brow and hope it gets no worse. 

“...How’s our patient?” Dilan asks. He carries a tray with soup for the both of them. “Don’t protest. This is for you. You’ve been up all night.”

“It’s the flu, I’m afraid.” He’s just dipped this cloth in cool water, it’s warm already. “Thank goodness he’s sleeping. He’d be miserable otherwise.”

Dilan stares down at the lump that was Ienzo, barely visible below all the blankets. “...How bad is it?”

Even checks his log; he’s been taking his temperature every two hours, in the vain hope that it’ll break sooner rather than later. “Hovering around 40.5.”

“...Goodness, that’s…”

“If it gets higher we can chance an ice bath. But I’d rather not do that if I can avoid it. He’s already so sensitive--odds are his mind would interpret the cold as pain.”

“Couldn’t you simply… put the boy to sleep?”

“As if the ice water wouldn’t wake him up?”

Dilan puts a hand to his forehead. “Forgive me… my head is rather foggy.”

“You must be exhausted.” Even rewets the rag and places it back on Ienzo’s warm little face. “Get some rest. The last thing we need is for you to get it as well.”

He nods. “Should I… call someone?”

“Like who? Dilan.” He chuckles. “I’ve seen many sick children in my day. I promise I’m qualified.”

“I know you’re close to the boy. That can cloud things.”

“...We’ll be just fine. Your concern touches me.”

He stays with Ienzo that night; Ansem comes in and out, bringing them food, blankets, tea. He makes Even go sleep for a few hours. Even hopes his own exhaustion is just that. The last thing he needs…

Ienzo’s fever drops from 40.5 to 39. An improvement, but not much of one; now instead of being asleep, he’s conscious and miserable and the cold medicine only makes him irritated. He still can barely keep anything down. Even tries not to worry--it takes much longer than two days for the flu to pass--but inside a web of anxiety is spinning, gently,  _ what if he doesn’t get better, what if the fever suddenly worsens in the night and he seizes, isn’t there something else I can do? _ He almost has to force the boy to drink, considers starting an IV line. After a few hours Ienzo sleeps, fitfully, shivering hard. Despite himself, Even drifts too, jolting back into consciousness every time his head nods. He knows he should ask for someone to relieve him, at least temporarily. But who?

During one of these sleepy waves, he hears it. “Daddy?”

Even blinks hard. “It’s Even, little one. Go back to sleep.”

He takes a shaky breath, one full of phlegm. “Where is he?”

He cracks a little. “I’m sorry. He’ll be back soon.”

“He’s supposed to--” Ienzo’s reeling a little, his eyes rolling. 

“What, love?”

“The song to make it go away--” He shudders, propping himself up.

“Lay back down. It’s alright.” His family must have had rituals, Even realizes, just like any other. “I can read to you, would that help?”

“Why did they leave?” His voice breaks.

“Oh, love. They didn’t want to.”

Ienzo bursts into tears. It’s not the same as the nightmare-induced panic attacks; there’s a cold sentience to this. Almost instinctively, and against his better judgement, Even draws him into his arms. He’s unsure of how Ienzo will react to the touch, but to his surprise he feels the boy clinging to him. It feels so familiar. The weight of him is almost exactly like--

_ Anything but that. _

He tries to focus on comforting the boy, but all he can say are some variations of “it’s alright.” It seems to take a very long time for Ienzo to calm down, settling down against Even’s chest in an exhausted heap. He dares not move, lest he disturb him more. 

The next thing he knows he’s waking up, the boy still asleep in his arms. As gently as Even can, he lays him back down and tucks the blanket more securely around his shoulders. He checks the boy’s fever. 38, only a touch higher than normal. They’re out of the woods. Or, he notes with a groan as he feels a sudden ache in his back, Ienzo is. He makes his way slowly out of the room and sees Dilan. “Don’t come any closer,” he warns. “I believe I’ve caught it too.”

Dilan sighs. “I’ll bring you some soup. Best get to bed.”

“...Right. Never a dull day around here, is there?”

“If only.”

He is beginning to feel the brunt of it in earnest; he shivers as he bathes no matter how warm the water, and the blankets do not seem to be enough. Dilan, in a mask, brings him medicine. Even tries to read for a while, but nothing has straight lines anymore, so he succumbs to a restless sleep. 

Of course he’s aware delirium can twist the mind, can weaken it, can lower one’s defenses. That doesn’t make him prepared for the onslaught that follows. He can see their faces clear as day as desperately as he tried to forget them--he can hear their voices--

_ Dad, look! Look, I got it!  _ The boy, hanging determinedly from a set of monkey bars.

_ Please be careful--oh, love-- _

_ Even, kids get hurt. Let him have his fun. _

He ran out of time. He should’ve  _ been _ with him. If he’d’ve been there maybe none of this would’ve happened. They’d still be--

Officers in deep blue uniforms--

_ An electrical failure-- _

_ Transformer blew--the place likely went up in minutes. _

_ They probably didn’t feel much of anything. _

He wasn’t there, making his imagination work all the harder--did they cry? Were they together when it happened, holding one another? Did they think of him? It has to have been awful--to feel oneself be torn apart--no matter how quickly it happens--

Something cool pats his face, bringing him almost, but not quite, to consciousness. He feels horrifically nauseous. “Go back to sleep,” says the voice.

“I have to… check on him,” he mumbles.

“Ienzo’s doing much better. His fever broke. You, on the other hand--” A wry chuckle. A sound like woodsmoke.

Smoke? “I should’ve--”

“Nonsense. You took excellent care of him. Now you must look after yourself.”

“He could’ve fallen.”

“Ienzo’s going nowhere.”

Even’s feeling increasingly woozy. “He  _ feels _ like him. Why did you do this to me?” And then it’s happening, he’s crying again, a sensation that physically hurts. He feels a hand on his back above the blankets.

“Why do you feel you must suffer alone?”

Darkness, for a long time. When he wakes he still feels horrid, but at least things are beginning to sharpen again. His head’s pounding, and his muscles feel like lead. He groans a little when he tries to prop himself up. 

“Even?”

His head snaps up; the sudden movement worsens the pain. “You should go, you needn’t see this.”

Ansem looks exhausted. His hair is unkempt, his beard needs trimming, and the circles under his eyes are nearly comical. “You’re too unwell to take care of yourself. I was near Ienzo, so if I’m already infected, no point exposing the others.” He pours Even a glass of water and hands him a few pills. “Your fever’s not so terrifyingly high, but you were quite delirious for a while.”

“I am… aware.” He scowls. He’s so thirsty. The moment he sets down his empty glass, Ansem gets more. He’s dragged a chair to Even’s bedside; it’s here Ansem sits.

“I wish to have… a word,” he says, with difficulty.

“While I’m essentially a captive audience? Not very sportsmanlike, is it?”

“Well quite bluntly otherwise you’d flee. Because you’ve been avoiding it like the plague.”

Even lays back down with a huff.

Ansem scratches his beard. “Kick and scream, I don’t care. We’ll chalk it up to your illness. You’re clearly suffering. Pushing it away isn’t going to make it any easier. You’re living in a state of quasi-denial where everything’s fine. Everything needn’t  _ be _ fine, Even.”

“You think this is denial?”

Ansem looks him in the eye. “Yes. I do. The longer you put it off, the more you don’t have to face the fact that your life is forever changed, that your residence in the castle is no longer a temporary one. You have to grieve them, Even. It’s been almost two years.”

He looks up at the ceiling. The dome light, a moth flickering around it agitatedly. “...Has it been that long already?” he asks. “I… hadn’t realized.” He’s again exhausted but can’t find the energy to be angry.

Mostly because Ansem’s right.

He feels Ansem’s warm, dry hand slide over his. “I do not expect you to be the same. But I would like you to let me help you.”

“What could you possibly do for me?”

“Listen.”

“With all your free time?”

“Even.”

He exhales shakily.

“Bonds can make a heart stronger,” Ansem says. “That’s what you need right now.”

How very like him, to frame it in context with Even’s work. “Where would I even begin?”

“You mentioned that Ienzo feels the same.”

It’s hard to breathe. “...Yes,” he says. “They’re about the same size. He was, rather. My son.” Saying it feels like getting stabbed. It’s easier not to look at Ansem, so he doesn’t.

“I… remember. But he never had an aptitude for the sciences. A gentle soul, that one.”

“Incredibly. Dare I say it, too fragile to last very long. Almost like we were tempting…” He trails off.

“...Fate? Even, I thought you didn’t believe in such things.”

“Ansem, I’m not certain of anything anymore.”

“...That’s quite alright.”

“I had wanted to make things better.”

“It’s not too late.”

“It always will be, for them.” He closes his eyes. “As for me…” He doesn’t know what else to say. “Other than my work, truly…”

“What is there to live for?”

“...I’m frightfully pathetic.”

“No. You’re in pain.” He adjusts his grip on Even’s hand. “Closing yourself off to the world won’t heal your heart.”

“I suppose it won’t.” It’s an emotion he’s unsure of, fragile and pale. “Why is it you care?”

“Even, I’ve known you since university. I’ve seen your brightness, your hope. I know you can find it again.”

“I’m afraid your certainty must be enough for the both of us.”

“I will try my best.”

* * *

He feels a bit different after the sickness, like he’s shifted a bit to the left. It takes a while to regather his strength, physically and otherwise. He spends this intellectually useless time with Ienzo, in the large library; the boy can’t seem to believe there are so many books. The excitement of it soothes Even. He wishes he could feel the same, that he could go back to the point where he, too, saw so much wonder.

Truthfully, other than his size, Ienzo bears no resemblance to his son. That child was an artful soul, constantly drawing; Ienzo never picks up a marker unless it is to write. That child loved to play; Ienzo would much rather read and seek stimulation more quietly. Were he older, Even thinks, Ienzo might have been a peer to himself. He surely must eventually go to university, to meet more people his age like him. Scientists are poor excuses for friends.

“So that’s him? Cute kid.”

The voice startles him; his heart jolts unpleasantly. He turns and sees a man he can only vaguely recognize, in the castle’s deep blue guard uniform; his short dark hair is slicked back, and a red kerchief covers his collar, breaking protocol for sure. “I’m sorry, can I help you?”

The man puts a hand on his hip. “Heard you guys are cooking up a project, and could use the extra help around here.” He sticks out his white-gloved hand. “Name’s Braig. We’ve met.”

Even glances briefly back at Ienzo, who has barely moved. Braig’s glove is a little dirty, and after he shakes his hand he makes a note to wash his own as soon as possible. “Then surely I needn’t introduce myself. That boy over there’s Master Ansem’s ward, Ienzo.”

“Figured. Everyone’s been talking about him.” Braig observes him for a moment. “You’re Ansem’s right hand man, aren’t you?”

“ _ Master _ Ansem,” Even corrects. “And I’m one of his science officers, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

The man shrugs. “So then why are you on babysitting duty?”

Even takes a breath to compose himself. Braig’s manner is  _ most _ unbecoming to a supposedly-stoic castle guard. “I assist with the boy’s education,” he says instead. 

Braig chuckles. “If you want to call it that.”

He tries to bite down on his temper. “Don’t you need to return to your rounds?” he asks, politely. 

He shrugs. “I’m off the clock. Just taking a look at my new digs. Only saw it briefly during orientation, which was a lot longer ago that I want to admit.”

So he doesn’t even have newness as an excuse for this behavior. “I see,” he says distastefully. 

“Can I introduce myself to the kid? Don’t want to freak him out if I’m going to be around.”

Even blanches. He hates to admit Braig has a point; Ienzo needs to be familiar with those around him. “...He is rather shy. Don’t be surprised if he simply ignores you.”

Braig shrugs. “Eh, I’ve had worse.” He approaches him slowly. There’s something lazy, almost cat-like, about the way he moves. Even watches him warily. “Hey, kiddo. Whatcha reading? Doesn’t look like a whole lot of fun.”

Ienzo looks up at his assailant with an expression of dull disappointment. 

“Name’s Braig. One of the castle guards. ‘Fraid you’re going to be seeing this ugly mug a lot.”

“Okay,” is all Ienzo says. He goes back to his reading. Braig crosses back over to the door.

“Not a people person, I guess,” he says. “Be seeing you, Even.”

Even bristles when Braig doesn’t use his title. “With all due politeness, if we’re to work together you  _ must _ be respectful.” 

Braig smirks a little. “Sure thing,  _ Doctor. _ ” When he leaves, his tread is nearly soundless. Even sighs a little out of frustration.

“Ienzo? We must go get some lunch.”

“I’m not hungry,” he says, turning the page.

“You lost weight when you were ill. The last thing we need is for you to get sick again.”

* * *

“...I admit he’s… a character,” Dilan says, his lip curling. 

“Is there no one else?” Even asks. “If this is to be the constant, I wish for it to be someone who’s… more in line with decorum.”

“Ansem does not seem to mind,” Dilan remarks. He looks pale, the skin under his eyes the color of a bruise. Even’s not sure which cup of coffee he’s on, but he’s also sure he doesn’t want to know. 

“I understand the… trepidation,” Aeleus says slowly. He searches through the tome he’s holding slowly. “I worked in tandem with him for some time. Braig is very experienced, and the people like him. That’s not for nothing. Have you truly never met?”

Even feels his face reddening. “Not that I can recall.”

Dilan chuckles. “Perhaps he’ll respect you if you respect him.”

“Of course his labor is valuable.”

“...Not what I said.”

“How are things going?” Even asks instead. 

He takes off his reading glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose. “Feels I’m running a fool’s errand,” Dilan admits. “I consulted with the wizard Merlin, as Master advised, yet…” He digs something out of his pocket and sets it on the table between the three of them; it’s a blistered, patinated bit of scrap metal, its edges splintered. “This is all that’s left of my prototype.”

Ienzo hops down from his chair to investigate. He reaches up to the table to take the piece of metal, his arm too short to reach the center of the table.

“No, child, that’s quite sharp,” Dilan says.

“I just want to look at it,” Ienzo says, with a hint of a whine. Aeleus hefts the boy onto his knee. He peers through the curtain of hair at the metal. “Not aluminum.” He pronounces it like “lumininum.” Even corrects him gently.

“No. It’s… it  _ was _ an alloy,” Dilan says.

He shakes his head. “Needs to be something flexible.”

They are all silent for several moments; Ienzo cocks his head slightly. 

Dilan scoffs a little to himself. “The boy’s right. Good on you, Ienzo.”

Ienzo beams at the praise, revealing his missing front teeth--the milk teeth fell out some two weeks prior. 

Dilan drums his fingers on the table. “But if not metal, then what?”

Ienzo shrugs. “Master says gummy.”

Even raises an eyebrow. “What, rubber?”

“ _ Gummy _ ,” he repeats, slowly, as if that makes it any clearer.

“Ienzo, we’ve no idea what you’re talking abou--”

He turns red. “That’s what his friend says!” He’s almost yelling. Ienzo’s temper is a new development. 

Aeleus rubs his shoulders gently. “Calm down and think about what you need to say,” he suggests. 

He’s tearing up, sniffling in frustration. It’s clear Ienzo occasionally has difficulty stringing together his thoughts, especially as he becomes more verbal. “His friend, his friend speaked about it--”

“Spoke,” Dilan corrects.

Aeleus tucks a strand of gray hair behind the boy’s ear. “What about this friend?”

Even’s almost sure the conversation’s meaningless until Ienzo says, “His friend has a star. He’s little, not like me. And he has a…” He shapes something with his hands, something long and thin.

Aeleus offers him a pencil and some graphing paper. “Why don’t you try drawing it?”

The boy begins sketching dutifully, the lines messy. It looks almost like a sword, or a bat, but he adds something to the tip of it, something like--

Even’s heart all but stops, and from the looks on Aeleus’s and Dilan’s faces, theirs do too. “Are you… quite sure of what you saw?” Even asks gently. Ienzo is not a particularly imaginative child, but this seems more plausible than the truth on the paper in front of them.

He nods. “I see… I saw it.”

There, in the horrible fluorescent lighting, is a drawing of a Keyblade.

* * *

There are so many thoughts going through Even’s mind, he doesn’t know how to keep track of them. He honestly isn’t sure if he feels sick or exhilarated.

They always thought that Keyblades were legend. But considering Ansem’s fascination with other worlds… Has he, privately, tried to  _ contact them? _

Is Ienzo merely lying?

The boy is not a liar, but it makes so much more sense if Even believes he is. Well, there’s one simple solution to all this. He may make a fool of himself, but he has to pursue this feeling.

During a break in Ansem’s schedule, he goes to see him. He considers bringing Ienzo too, as a sort of collateral, but Aeleus is in the middle of a biology quiz, and Even knows how busy Ansem gets.

He feels breathless, and sweaty. “I must have a word.”

Ansem’s head snaps up. “My friend! Are you alright? Please, sit.”

He does, sinking first down onto a pile of files before he remembers to remove them. Ansem pours some water from a decanter and hands it to him. Even watches the light refract off of the crystal glass, trying to gather his nerve. “You had Ienzo in on a meeting,” Even says.

Ansem looks more confused than anything. “I never involve him in city work.”

“A visitor, then? Some  _ friend _ of yours?” He sounds a bit wheezy. “The boy is either… telling tales, or you’ve been up to something.”

Ansem hesitates, and this hesitation tells Even everything he needs to know. “I did not intend for Ienzo to be there, but he just so happened to arrive when--”

“ _ Who _ ?”

Ansem sighs heavily. It’s a sound of getting caught.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Even has a splitting headache. He may, he reckons, be going completely insane.

Apparently out of the blue one day a  _ mouse king _ arrived from another world, teleported willy-nilly via something he called a “star shard.” Even does not know how to begin unpacking this.  _ Mouse? _ Child-sized, sentient, speaking their language? And of course Ansem immediately started asking him about this--the two spent some hours talking about their worlds, the commonalities, the differences. Which of course Ansem kept to himself. Only then the mouse (mouse!) king returned, during one of Ansem’s tutoring sessions with Ienzo. This time he brought books, books from this other world, and some aqueous cubes of material he calls “gummi blocks.” And he was very pleased to tell Ansem he’d become a Keyblade master.

What in the world is going  _ on _ ? Nobody has ever believed Keyblades were _ real _ , and here the proof is in the pudding, so to speak. It’s all true, which makes Even feel even more mad; it seems like everything he’s learned is a lie.

In it all, a glint of hope.

Ansem lends him the books. Here there’s more information about light and darkness--well-reasoned studies proving, more than anything, that it’s a whole lot more  _ literal _ than any of them have ever thought, and provides them with building blocks on how to seek it out in the environment.

The gummi material is exactly as alien as Even thought; immensely mutable, easily replicable. He spends hours subjecting the stuff to tests--extreme heat, liquid nitrogen, stress, impact, gravity. It can hold shape with ease, hardening to become like glass, its texture scrambling to become whatever they urge it to conform to. And it seems to be extremely durable.

“Something  _ flexible _ ,” Dilan says with awe. “This must be what Ienzo meant.”

It seems to be exactly what they need to move forward with their research. Now that he knows he’s not suffering a mental breakdown, the possibilities excite Even, actually make it difficult to sleep at night. 

They create something like a pod, with the hope of being able to isolate the light from the darkness. They need something living, to study; they examine mice, reptiles, insects. While these things  _ do _ seem to carry light and darkness in their own way, they also lack hearts--the real, intangible, metaphysical hearts. The proper thing to do would be to study people. The machine seems to do no harm to the lesser animals, but the moment humanity comes into it, it gets intensely more complicated.

“It will take… quite some doing,” Ansem admits. “You have to create a risk impact statement, and that statement has to pass the board of ethics. And I  _ need _ it to. I will not have anyone getting hurt. We know so little about these forces.”

“Of course we will obtain informed consent,” Even says. “We merely wish to examine them, and to ask them questions about the more… mythical things. Like bonds, or memories. How do we measure these things? We can only figure it out by gathering data.”

“I warn you, this may take some time,” Ansem says. He crosses his legs, looking towards the machines--Dilan has made two more. “The typical amount of time it takes things to pass the board is six months--something like this? Perhaps longer.”

Even curses his own lack of foresight. He should have drafted something earlier, before they got swept in this nonsense, to avoid these roadblocks. But who, says a small voice inside of him, would really stop them? Who would inspect them? After all, this would all be so harmless. “...Of course.”

“I will try my best to force it past them--but they must carry out their own studies, and observations. The people have a right to know what happens at this castle. Especially if it  _ may-- _ however nebulously--impact them.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m sure you have other things to pursue in the meantime.”

“I suppose I could… spend some more time on Ienzo’s education. I fear in all this excitement it’s been rather neglected.”

He smiles, but it’s tired. “I’m sure the boy learns much more than you think merely being around you.”

“It was his idea to use the gummi blocks,” Even admits. “I think he intuited their use before we even experimented on them.”

Ansem stares at him. “Is that true?”

“Children often have fresh, blunt perspectives,” he says. He goes to adjust the band in his hair, but again, the elastic breaks against his fingers. “...Blast.”

Ansem chuckles. “If it bothers you so much, cut it.”

“It is rapidly getting to that point.” He takes the band and tries to tie it around the mass. It holds, barely. “As I was saying. Ienzo’s intellect here pairs well with that freshness. He can see things we’re too stubborn to see, in a way far less complex.”

Ansem twirls a pen. “Would it do him good to continue to observe your work? Does he enjoy it?”

Even thinks. “I believe so. It started this way out of necessity--if he’s not with you, he’s with one of us, and this is where we’ve all been.”

“If it’s as harmless as you say… I see no reason why it shouldn’t continue. So long as he still gets sunlight, and the like.”

* * *

For a while they all slip into a sort of lull. Even takes Ienzo to town with him, hoping to enroll him into some sort of activity that would encourage him to make friends; but the stimuli of the city actually reduces Ienzo to tears, and Even ends up carrying the boy home. It’s strange; Ienzo’s always been able to make it to the library, but the library isn’t in the dead center of town. He puts him to bed, lays a cool cloth over his eyes. “We can try again when you’re ready,” he says softly. 

Soon, though, Ienzo disappears again, for more than his usual trip to the town library. Even tries to be more rational about it this time--the boy probably lost track of the hours--and he finds he doesn’t have to go very far. He’s merely in the square, near a blonde teenage boy wearing odd clothing (the fashions these days). He must’ve been bringing Ienzo home. “Ah, there you are. Didn’t I warn you not to wander off, child?” Ienzo gives a small shrug. He turns to the blond boy. “I see we owe you our thanks. We have done our best to raise the boy, since his poor parents are not here to do it.” 

The teenager stares down at Ienzo. “Oh, you’re on your own, huh?” Then, to Even--”Sir, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He’s a tall guy dressed kinda like me. Have you seen him?”

Even would not have expected such politeness from someone dressed so. But he knows a gaggle of teenagers gathers on the outskirts of town. “Perhaps I did see him in the outer gardens. Just follow this road.”

“Thank you.” Something about this boy’s face is familiar. Who knows--such kindness and eagerness to protect might make a good guard out of him. 

Even smiles a little. “No, thank you, for keeping Ienzo out of harm’s way.” He pauses. “And… well, let’s just say I have a feeling we are destined to cross paths again.”

The boy seems unsure of how to respond. They part on that note. Even notices a sudden vacantness in Ienzo’s eyes. 

“How kind of that young man to bring you home,” he says. “Then again, I suppose everyone knows who you are.”

“No,” Ienzo says.

“No, what?”

He looks up. He squeezes his shoulder once. “Nothing. It was by chance. Do you think you’ll meet him again?”

He blinks. “I think anything’s possible. Don’t you?”

* * *

He’s finally fallen deeply, blessedly asleep one night several weeks later when he’s being woken. Aeleus, urgent and flushed. “We need you,” he says.

“What? This late? Why?”

“It’s Ienzo.”

He doesn’t bother putting on his formal clothes and follows Aeleus in his dressing gown. The air’s cool, dry; it smells like ozone. Even notes that outside it’s storming. They go down to the new lab. Even can taste his heartbeat, knowing all too well that nothing good has happened here. Braig, of all people, is cradling the boy; he’s in an odd state of quasi-consciousness. Even notices for the first time that the man’s wearing an eye patch, one he most certainly did not have several weeks ago. What did that miscreant do? Well, it’s not important now. 

“I was doing my rounds down here when I saw him,” Braig begins. “I asked the kid what he was doing but he just stared at me. He was standing over there--” Braig points to one of the machines. Aeleus darts over to investigate. “I dunno. He started breathing all funny and then dropped like a sack of potatoes.” He lays Ienzo down so Even can examine him. His pulse is elevated, and he’s nearly hyperventilating. A finger of panic threatens to overtake Even, but he swallows it down. 

“What is it, Aeleus?” Even hedges.

“Come here,” Aeleus says in an odd voice.

“I’m tending to Ienzo, Aeleus, he needs--”

“You really have to see this.”

Braig shakes his head. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid,” he says.

Shakily, Even joins Aeleus. Instantly he can tell what overtook Ienzo; the strong scent of chlorine gas makes his eyes water before he can turn away. The ventilation is good enough that it shouldn’t affect the rest of them now; but for a small child, one good lungful is enough. A hole has been burned clean through the ersatz gummi glass; something’s a molten lump inside, pinkish and still smoldering. More alarming than this, though, are the thin purplish tendrils rising from it. 

“Chemical smoke?” Aeleus asks. 

Even knows this is not the case. He isn’t sure how he knows--it’s just a certainty deep inside. 

The gummi block drips darkness.

* * *

He tells Aeleus to put on protective gear and seal the block somewhere safe so they can observe it. Meanwhile, he has more important things to deal with. He brings Ienzo to the med bay, decontaminates him in case the chlorine got on any other parts of his body, and starts him on oxygen. He does not need to be intubated, thank the stars, but it takes much too long for his breathing to sound less labored. In all this, the poor boy falls asleep.

He sees Ansem’s face peeking in through the glass panel on the door, but he doesn’t dare intrude until Even gives his approval. He rushes over to Ienzo, pulls him close; Even’s shocked to see a tear run down his face. Once he seems to assure himself the boy’s stable, he turns to Even, danger in his rust-colored eyes.

“A word,” is all he says. A command, not a question. 

Even stands and glances over towards the bed.

“Aeleus will keep an eye on him. Come.”

Even follows several paces behind, his heart pounding dread. Once they’re well out of earshot, in the breezeway, Ansem speaks, his back turned to Even, his hands held behind. None of the affable friendliness of their normal interactions--no longer just Ansem, but Ansem the Wise, King of Radiant Garden.

Very well. 

“This must not continue,” Ansem says. His voice is soft, and low, barely audible above the rain pattering loudly on the crystal ceiling. 

“Do not blame this on me. The boy went down there on his own.”

“Of course he did! He’s a child, a curious one. We’ve done nothing but enable him, and now we’ve put him in danger.” Ansem looks over his shoulder. “I forbid him from observing this research any longer, at least until he’s old enough to understand consequence. I figured that you of all people would know better.”

It feels like a barb, rendering Even’s retort useless. He doesn’t catch his breath for a full moment. His heart is full of ice. “What are we to do, then? Have him under lock and key? Am I to keep twenty-four hour surveillance on him?”

“I mean you need to be careful.”

“I am nothing  _ but _ careful.” He should feel enraged, but all he feels is a strange, cool distance. “We are  _ all _ careful with him. Moreover…” A breath. “He’s  _ your _ son. We did not collectively agree to raise him. If you’re so concerned about his wellbeing, perhaps you should have a more active role in his life. I can’t do everything, Ansem.”

He turns. Even holds firm.

“You prattle on about my recovery, and yet, you’ve no idea of the weight of the responsibility you’ve placed on me.”

“You think  _ I _ do not know  _ responsibility? _ ” There’s a sharpness to his tone Even’s never heard before.

“Abstractly, yes, of course. But when faced with it in the flesh, you--”

There’s a splitting crack outside, a crack of thunder; a shockwave cracks the crystal window closest to Ansem, and they both jump. “What on  _ earth _ ?” Ansem spits. “Even--dear god, look out the window.”

The sky is swarming with darkness--luminous pink and violet and black tendrils. “We must get inside.”

“Get Ienzo. Go somewhere safe, all of you.  _ Go. _ ”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to go out in this?”

“Even, I must see what’s to be done. The people may be in danger.”

He takes a breath.  _ Be careful, _ he nearly says. “...Alright.”

Ienzo’s conscious when he gets back to the room. 

“What’s happening?” Aeleus asks.

“I’ve no idea. The three of us are going down to my lab. There’s--” He feels Ienzo’s eyes on him. “Something’s going on outside. A bad storm. Best keep away from windows. No need to worry.”

Aeleus knows he’s lying for Ienzo’s benefit. “Can you walk?” he asks the boy. “You know what? Here.” He hefts him into his arms. “You’ll soon be too old to be carried around, yes? Might as well enjoy this small luxury.”

They go together, Even carrying the oxygen tank. Ienzo still seems limp, tired, though his eyes betray something else happened down there. What on earth had the boy done? Melted down a gummi block? But how? Nothing Even did to them had  _ that _ reaction. Something that resulted in a production of chlorine… unless the gas the melting block emitted simply  _ seemed _ like chlorine? They do not truly know what the blocks are made of, just that they can make themselves into any substance.

And how did it produce darkness in its rawest form?

Ienzo’s staring at him, so he tries to smile. “You, little one, are in a lot of trouble,” he says jovially. “What were you doing in the lab on your own? You know it’s not safe! It’s a good thing Braig found you. You could’ve gotten sick.”

Ienzo says nothing. Again, he’s limp against Aeleus, but his breathing’s not audible and his pulse feels more or less normal, all things considering. 

“We  _ will _ talk about this,” Even says to him sternly. “Once you’ve rested.”

In the lab, they rest the boy on Even’s cot, the one he uses when he’s simply too exhausted to walk all the way back. He tucks the blanket around the boy’s shoulders. “Try to get some sleep.” He sits with Ienzo until the boy’s drifted off. The thunder’s much quieter here, but still, to the listening ear, audible--even through all the stone.

Aeleus wordlessly hands him a cup of coffee and nods his head towards the supply pantry. Even follows him inside and shuts the door most of the way. "Have you any idea what this is?" Aeleus whispers.

"I… almost feel as if I imagined it," Even says in an equally soft voice. "The sky was full of color--of darkness. But I don't know--where would it have come from? We've no idea what so much of it can do--the myths all point to destruction. I was told to come here with you and protect the boy." He feels his lips curl into a sneer. "And of course I must follow orders."

Aeleus sighs. "He blames you?"

"Of course he does. I'm afraid I lost my temper."

"I'd be surprised if you didn't."

"We have to figure out whatever Ienzo was doing," Even says. He fusses with the dry ends of his hair. "Not just for his safety… for our research. And  _ why _ he decided to do this on his own."

"He likes independence," Aeleus says simply.

"Well. There's plenty of time for him to  _ be _ independent when he's older--"

"Even?" They hear him call from the other room.

He crosses over to Ienzo; he's fiddling with the oxygen mask, unable to get it off of his face.

"Little one, you should leave that on. You breathed in some nasty business."

He blushes, then admits, embarrassed, "I need the washroom."

"Oh--of course." Even takes it off, points to the door where it could be found. "But it goes on the moment you're through." 

They wait for him. Aeleus pulls a puzzle charm out of his pocket and begins working on it. "Can't solve this one. I've been on it for weeks." 

"You and your games."

"It keeps the mind limber. You should keep neuroplasticity in mind. We're at the age where we begin to lose such things."

Even looks into his half-drained coffee cup. "I'll ignore what you're implying," he says.

Aeleus chuckles.

It seems like Ienzo's been gone a long time; is his stomach upset? Even debates for a moment or so on checking in. Or--more insidiously--was he overtaken again by faintness? He can't help himself; he knocks on the closed door. "Ienzo? Are you alright?" He hears what sounds like muffled breaths. "You sound like you can't breathe, child." It's the silence that worries him. "I'm sorry, I'm coming in."

He finds Ienzo curled opposite the toilet, rocking a little. If Even hasn't seen this before, he'd figure it  _ does _ have to do with his breathing. He kneels down next to him. "That was scary, yes?" He says gently. "You're safe now." He flinches away from Even's touch for the first time in a long while. "Ienzo?"

He's sobbing a little, a sound that hurts to hear.

"It's safe here," he reasserts, only to immediately be contradicted by the loudest peal of thunder yet; they both jump, and Ienzo continues to shudder. "It's merely a storm." 

It takes a long time for the boy to calm. He's shivering; Even drapes his robe over him, but it doesn't seem to do much good. He wants to go get a blanket, or better, get the boy back to the cot, but he's also unsure of leaving him alone. He's on the verge of asking for Aeleus to get it for him when he hears a small "I'm sorry."

"Oh, child, it's alright."

He shakes his head. He uncurls a little, revealing that he's wet himself.

"No matter. Happens to the best of us. I'll get something clean for you to change into, yes?" Privately, he's concerned; how deeply shaken was Ienzo, in order for this to happen? He goes to prop himself up, only to feel a small hand grab at his. "I promise I'll be right back. Aeleus is nearby. You're safe."

Aeleus does give him an odd look; all Even does is shake his head and press a finger to his lips to tell him not to speak of it.

“I need to go get a few things,” he says instead. “Wouldn’t hurt to check on the situation, either. Perhaps we can go back upstairs, to bed. I’m exhausted. I’m sure you are too.”

Aeleus shrugs. “We’ll be here.”

It seems like a very long walk back upstairs to their residences, but it isn’t. Even’s endlessly troubled; first and foremost to what is obviously a trauma response in the boy, and also to the unearthly cataclysm going on outside. Never, as long as he’s been alive, can he recall ever experiencing something like this. Radiant Garden is prone to violent outbreaks of wind, but only in the winter. Climate change is the only thing he can think of, but they moved away from harsh fuels long ago--before he was even born. And truly carbon dioxide cannot cause  _ this. _

And why is this happening  _ only _ after they’ve had contact with an outside world?

Even gathers some dry pajamas and a blanket from Ienzo’s bedroom, and one for himself and Aeleus while he’s at it. He hopes that, wherever Dilan is, he’s safe. Dilan may be occasionally foolhardy, but at least he’s practical. He chances a glance out the windows in his quarters. To his immense relief, the sky is no longer dark in that abnormal way--the rain now seems normal. But is it only temporary?

Where is Ansem in all this?

He returns back to the others. “Things seemed to have calmed,” he says to Aeleus. Ienzo still appears to be hiding in the bathroom, door cracked slightly. “I’m sure you’d rather be in your own bed,” he adds, for Ienzo. He hands him the dry clothes through the crack and gives him privacy. Aeleus bobs his head towards this, and Even just shakes his head. After a moment Ienzo emerges, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Shall we go?” he asks the child. He nods.

Even is finally able to put the child to bed, and insists he wears the oxygen, at least until morning. 

“I know it’s not very comfortable, but humor me,” he says. “You’ll feel better for it.”

Ienzo clings tightly to his small stuffed cat, a relic from his parents’ home. “It hurts,” he says, his voice muffled through the mask.

“What does?”

“The… the noise,” he says. “I can--” He glances towards the window.

“The thunder?” It becomes a little clearer; he’s sensitive enough as it is, all of the noise must have been internalized as pain. “It’s rain now, little one. Hear how it’s letting up?”

“I… I  _ heard _ …”

“What did you hear?”

“Someone was angry. Screaming.”

“In the lab?”

He shakes his head. “In the sky?”

The darkness? Has the boy sensed it? Is it possible? More likely, this is part of that same trauma.“Is it still happening?” Even asks.

“No,” the boy admits.

“Perhaps you had a nightmare. You know how those bleed into reality sometimes.”

“It  _ wasn’t _ ,” he insists, with more anger. Then, “Darkness.”

Even exhales. “Let me look into this for you. It’s possible you’re sensitive to it. In the meantime, you have to rest. Things will be clearer in the morning.”

“Believe me?” Ienzo asks.

“Of course I do, little one.” He squeezes his hand. “And should you need to get out of bed, you can take the mask off by pulling this tab.” He stands.

“Can you leave the lamp on?” he asks.

He tries to smile. “...Certainly.”

He knows he needs to sleep as well. It’s getting light out at this point, and the covers of his bed feel heavy, nearly alien. Even drifts for a while, fighting the worry that’s swelling in his chest, only to be fully roused by the soft creak of the door opening. He huffs. “Can’t a man have an hour’s worth of peace?” he asks. 

Ansem is standing there, soaked to the skin, his red stole hanging limply against his jacket. “I apologize,” he says. “I wouldn’t ask for your assistance if it weren’t warranted.”

Even could do without his tone. “What is it now?”

“Dilan and Braig found a boy--a young man--in the square. Seems to be injured and reeling.”

“And? Can’t he go to the hospital like everyone else?”

Ansem frowns. “We believe he arrived with the storm.”

Despite himself, it all makes sense--he read however nebulous about darkness’s ability to transmute, to transport. “I will dress and be there shortly.”

The young man’s about eighteen, and unconscious. They found him facedown in a pool of rainwater in the square. One of them has changed him into dry clothing. Braig and Dilan hover nearby; Dilan exhausted, Braig vaguely pained. Even examines him and notes that aside from some a few nasty scratches that require stitches, he seems to be alright. His hair isn’t gray like Ienzo’s, but a much more violent shade of silver; his eyes, when Even opens them, are a glistening gold. But the young man won’t wake. “Well he has no brain injury,” Even says. “No fever. I’m not sure why he won’t rouse. Was he conscious at all?”

Ansem sighs. “But for a moment.”

“Did he say anything? Did he give a name?”

He looks towards the young man. “Xehanort.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark path, one they will never be able to recover from.

It takes three days for the young man to wake from his slumber--Even doesn’t know what to call it. It doesn’t qualify as a true coma, according to his tests; and when he pokes into one of the tomes the mouse king left behind, he finds an abstractly worded passage regarding darkness and sleep, that it can threaten the mind. It’s more puzzling than anything.

It seems he divides his attention between Ansem’s two strays--Ienzo, reticent, not quite himself since the night in the lab, and Xehanort. He and Aeleus try to figure out what happened, asking questions as gently as they can, but now the boy’s insisting he can’t remember. Even isn’t so sure, but he’s also afraid to push, less it destabilize him more. 

Aeleus and Dilan examine the molten lump of the gummi block. It still hasn’t hardened after all these hours, and its temperature isn’t even high. From the lead-encased fume hood they watch the tendrils of darkness swirl against the display. They placed a mouse inside, to see how it reacted; it panicked, squealing for hours, trying to outrun the tendrils before--and Dilan recounts this with horror--the darkness ate it whole, leaving behind nothing but one stump of a leg. 

They aren’t sure if the block is doing it on its own, or if it’s due to the darkness, but it produces small amounts of electricity, enough to light a ten watt bulb for a few seconds. Even itches to see what it does to cells--if it truly does eat away at them, or if it has a transmutative property as well--but rather than pursue this, he must tend to the young man.

Ansem is with him, much like he was with Ienzo in those early days; Even has a feeling he knows where this is going. At least if Ansem takes in this stray too, this one is old enough to feed and clothe and educate himself.

Xehanort wakes with a gasp. “Who--?” he asks. 

“Easy, young man,” Ansem says kindly. “You’ve suffered a trauma.”

He blinks, his strange gold eyes taking everything in. “Where am I?”

“A city called Radiant Garden. We found you by the castle gates, during a horrible storm.”

“A… storm?” he echoes. His voice, while hoarse, is very deep for a boy that age. 

“Do you remember what it is that led you here?” Ansem asks kindly. Even pulls the IV from the young man’s hand, bandages it. 

“No, I…” He tries to focus, squinting. “It’s all… a blur.”

“It may come back to you,” Ansem says. “No need to worry. Where did you come from?”

The young man stares blankly. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t--” Ansem’s thrown. “Is there anything you  _ do _ remember?”

“I’m Xehanort.”

“Other than that.”

The boy seems horrorstruck. “It’s all--I can’t--” He touches his forehead.

Even’s mind spins back to his reading. “...Retrograde amnesia,” he says gently. “Possibly as a response to an injury. But every test I ran showed no injuries…”

“We needn’t worry our guest,” Ansem says. His voice is polite, but Even senses the warning. “Not while he is recovering.”

The young man meets Even’s eyes. “No,” he says. “Tell me.”

* * *

Very quickly he finds that Xehanort is insatiably curious--about them, their work, this world he’s ended up in. He wants answers. As he’s physically well, he’s soon moved into an empty room on their floor. Ansem presents him with the clothing and armor they’d found with him. “Very strange,” Xehanort mutters, running his fingers over the material. “Nobody around here wears anything like this.” He’s gone out on his own, to explore the city and get his bearings. He’s an adult; Even has no real interest in what he decides to pursue. “You say I arrived with the storm… Is that more than just poetic? Could I have possibly been brought here by darkness?”

Even wishes not to care about him, but the curiosity nags, itching, almost more than the darkness. It’s clear the two are tied. 

“How? And… why?” Xehanort presses a hand to his brow. “It’s so strange, what I do and don’t remember. I can’t remember my hometown, but I know to read, to tie my shoes. This loss of memory can’t be merely neurological.”

He has a point; all of the boy’s tests were normal. “Then what do you believe it is?” Even asks.

He thinks. “Perhaps… my heart?” He lays a hand on his chest. “If I were truly exposed to darkness, and my body wasn’t impacted, that’s all that could be left. Right?”

Even has to hide his shocked expression. It’s beginning to click, the pieces coming together. The darkness--Ienzo’s claim to have lost memory. “Your… heart,” he repeats slowly. “Xehanort… perhaps you were a scientist in your previous life.”

The boy smiles. “Well. Anything’s possible.”

This just emphasizes their need to be able to test and examine’s people’s hearts, and Ansem agrees. It isn’t just feeling, or bonds, it can clearly be so much more. Memory! He’s almost dizzy thinking about it.

Though Ienzo is temporarily banned from their research, Xehanort quickly assists; in some ways, it feels like he’s always been there. It’s clear he doesn’t have the education, but he picks up the studies with an unnatural speed, faster even that precocious Ienzo. “It could be my memories,” he says, returning a medical text to Even. “Maybe they’re coming back. It just feels… right.”

“You certainly are extremely bright,” Even says, with a smile. “Who knows--perhaps it is fate, that brought you here.”

“Perhaps…” He smiles, but then it fades. “But… then how did I get here? If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it takes so much power and effort to harness the darkness. And why would I have done it in the first place?”

“I can’t answer those questions,” Even says.

He nods. “Might I examine that block?”

“If you like. Please be exceedingly careful. You don’t want it to injure you… not like those poor mice.” He knows they are just lab rats, lesser beings, but they still feel physical pain. 

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

It’s the politeness, more than anything, that makes him smile. “My pleasure.”

* * *

In all this, something in Ienzo begins to change. He’s still learning as much, as quickly, still occasionally nightmares aloud. But he becomes again reticent--not mute, but speaking as little as possible. He withdraws from the others, often spends his time hiding in the library (according to Braig). Even doesn’t pretend to understand it.

Xehanort chuckles. “Is it not obvious?”

Even looks up from the diagrams spread in front of him. “Say what you mean,” he says, a bit snappishly.

“He’s  _ jealous _ ,” Xehanort says. He shakes his head. “We’re all down here, making these exciting discoveries--and then talking about them in and around him, over dinner, what have you.” Ansem has recently formalized Xehanort’s apprenticeship--not point not to. The young man is their inciting incident. “And he’s smart enough that not being involved must hurt. How would you feel, Even, if someone was working on your passion project instead of you?”

He looks up. “You are… right. But it’s not safe for him here.”

Xehanort considers this. “I’ll talk to him,” he says. “Let’s see if we can’t ease the tension.”

* * *

The good news comes in a pair. Seeing the cataclysmic storm the night of Xehanort’s arrival made the board of ethics more amenable to studying the heart. They approve Even’s plan to speak with human subjects and examine their hearts. This requires the construction of tiny conference rooms, to protect the privacy of their volunteers; it goes fairly quickly. Secondly, Ienzo is allowed to be present in the room again--on one condition.

“It could be worse,” Braig says. “Babysitting duty? Hell of a lot easier than trying to keep kids out of the castle.”

“I’ve no idea what you said to Master Ansem to allow him back,” Dilan says, with a shake of his head. 

“I’m his pet project,” Xehanort says simply. “Ienzo’s his son. Together, we’re unstoppable.” 

The boy certainly does seem a lot happier; it helps that Xehanort puts the fear of god in him when it came to safety procedures. This makes Ienzo’s seventh birthday a happy one, as they do have a lot to be thankful for.

They put notices in the papers, in community spaces, to find subjects for their study involving hearts. Initially, there’s not much response; a few people, here and there. They take scrupulous amounts of notes on these people--their lives, if they’ve suffered traumas, their physical makeups. Ienzo believes that the balance within the hearts is tied to the bonds of people; so they interview friends, married couples, siblings, parents and children.

“Ienzo’s right,” Ansem says. “It makes a difference in the samples.”

But how to truly determine light and darkness, all without hurting their subjects? It’s a sticky situation. The pods Dilan built all those weeks ago can still divine the difference in matter, with some few tweaks by Xehanort. He can’t deny that the machines look terrifying to step into, especially to an outsider. So while all the others bicker and waffle over the best way to do this, Even experiments again with his cells, his embryos. Things that are alive, but unfeeling. He holds the petri dish over the raw darkness extracted from the gummi block. Ienzo, bored of the arguing, watches as well from the other side of the glass. It gives Even a thrill, to only have gloves and some glass separating him from the darkness. Once exposed, he takes the cells back to his microscope. The darkness seems to have caused spontaneous division. This must’ve been what was missing all along, this power. Breathing a bit hard, he places the cells in an incubator, to see how it affects their functioning. 

Xehanort is displeased with what they’ve done so far, momentous as it is. On one of the days Ansem isn’t there, he says, “We need to go farther.”

Aeleus squints. “How so?”

“Aeleus, we’re so close. We… we’ve discovered so much, but we still haven’t gotten close to how it all affects memory.” He smooths a flyaway hair. “I’ve been doing some… reading. Master Ansem lent me some of the books that King Mickey brought and I…” His hands are trembling. Ienzo stares up at him. “I’ve managed to create darkness. It’s great we still have that gummi block, but who knows how long it will be until it degrades?”

Even nearly spits out his coffee. “You  _ created darkness? _ How is that even possible?”

“It’s magic too, not just science.” He closes his eyes, focusing hard; they see something like smoke in his palm. “Look,” he says with difficulty. “I… tried it on the mice… it causes a sort of frisson, in their balances. I’m afraid I have no samples left.” The darkness disappears. “If we could do it in people, maybe we can feel their bonds, see what it has to do with memory--”

“How do you propose doing this without killing people?” Dilan asks. 

“I mean, I… I can try my best--” He swallows. “I would like to speak with Master Ansem. To see if we can get greater permission. We can… inform, the people. That way they know what they might risk. The people here love science, sirs. Some of them must be willing to make sacrifices.”

In his chair in the corner, Braig is smirking just the slightest.

* * *

Another amnesiac ends up on their radar, though she does not appear during a storm. She’s younger than Xehanort, about fifteen; unlike him, she doesn’t even remember her name.

“She’s the perfect opportunity,” Xehanort says. “With this darkness, maybe I can help her.  _ Heal _ her. Let her remember.”

Even’s seen him practicing, in the courtyards. He can manifest it with ease, now. “I don’t know how Master Ansem will approve that.” Apparently, Xehanort’s idea made him fly into a rage. Even has no idea how that happened; he’s seen Ansem angry, but not like this. He’s ordered them to put a stop to the human side of the experiments, and so far they’ve listened. 

Xehanort’s gold eyes bear into his. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“But Xeha--”

“Aren’t you curious?” he asks in a low voice. “Sir, I know you’ve been thinking about it. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but I know what you’re trying to achieve, with those embryos. I think that’s amazing--it could change the world. Maybe the worlds! I know the darkness is the only way you’ve made progress, the only way you’ve been able to start giving them their own hearts.” A pause. “Not to mention… if I can control memory… don’t you all have a thing or two you wouldn’t mind letting go of?”

He feels like he can’t breathe. “How did you find out about that?”

Xehanort doesn’t answer. “And Ienzo,” he says. “I know how hard things have been for him, how much pain he’s in, how little help there is--I can purify his mind of those memories. He can have the strength to be a fantastic researcher, instead of a sufferer.”

“I am not sure,” he says, reeling. “I--”

“Besides,” he says. “If no one knows the girl’s here, and there’s… an accident, nobody will ever know. No ethics board. No Master Ansem.” He stands back up, smoothing down his ascot. “Think about it,” he adds, at a normal volume. “Sir, don’t you deserve to be more than Master Ansem’s errand boy, his babysitter? Wouldn’t you rather  _ this _ be your legacy, rather than a… a meaningless title?”

Even can feel his heart racing. “You won’t hurt her?”

Xehanort squeezes his hand. “I shall try my very best.”

* * *

They make one of the small rooms into a makeshift bedroom for the girl. They’ve already had subjects A through W, so it seems natural to label her as the next in line. She doesn’t seem quite as lucid as Xehanort was, like her mind is half in a dream. Xehanort soon loops in the others, and while they too are hesitant, they are only doing this for the greater good. And who knows? Maybe they can give this girl her life back.

They begin with a psychological assessment, of sorts; most surprising is that Ienzo wants to be the one to do it. “I’m little,” he says with a shrug. “I’m non-threatening.” He gets her to talk about dreams. Most of the dreams are not interesting, or of note--teeth falling out, realizing one is naked in public--but there are a few Ienzo suspects are memories “because mine hide in my dreams too.” She mentions something about a desert, about hoards of people; after she admits this, she falls into a deep sleep for nearly a week.

“Ienzo, this is excellent,” Xehanort says. “Her heart must be damaged--making her mind remember those dreams made her body shut it down.”

Ienzo doesn’t smile, the way he normally does receiving such a compliment. “Then why doesn’t mine?” he asks.

Xehanort kneels to his level. “Because your heart is strong,” he says. “So is your mind. You can handle the stress; she can’t.”

“So I’m special,” he says dryly.

There’s a gleam in Xehanort’s eye--curious. “Yes,” he says. “You are.”

* * *

When they come back the next morning the place has been ransacked. There are papers everywhere; one of Aeleus’s plant pots has been smashed, leaving dirt all over the white floor. 

“Braig,” Dilan hisses. “Isn’t this your purview?”

“Dude! I can’t be here twenty-four hours a day. You forget I’m union?” He shrugs. “It must’ve been the night guy who let in our little friend--or maybe one of you forgot to lock the door.”

They padlocked it recently, in case Ansem were to try and get in. Even maintains they are merely working with the darkness, with the gummi block; this airtight door was a precaution should it get out. It should be harder to lie to him after all these years.

Braig walks over to the girl’s room. They don’t lock it--she never goes anywhere either way, almost catatonic--and she sits on the mattress, on her hands. He snaps. “You, girl. You see anything?”

She shrugs, her long dark hair falling over one shoulder.

“You messing around in here?”

She shakes her head. 

“Well then, who was it?”

“I must’ve been asleep,” she says. 

“There’s some fishy business going on,” Braig says. “Better keep a tighter lock in here, in case something falls into unsavory hands.”

That night they lock the door of the girl’s room for the first time. She doesn’t react at all. They are ransacked two more times over the following month; they begin locking their papers in file cabinets in the offices. Xehanort is convinced that they’ve done all they can with the girl without further intervention. He goes to her one cold winter morning, to examine her heart; the rest of them, including Braig, watch. Ienzo, in particular, seems fascinated; Even has to put a hand on his shoulder to hold him back. 

Even feels his own pulse hammering as he watches the boy hold his hands over the girl’s chest, probing gently with the grayish strings of darkness. “I can feel her heart beating,” he says. Her eyes are wide, staring, darting back and forth in fear. “Does that hurt, friend?”

“No,” she says, with difficulty.

“I’m trying to find your memory. Your heart’s strong, I can feel it. You should be proud of that.” He probes more; she flinches.

“Careful,” Even says without meaning to.

There’s a faraway look in Xehanort’s eyes. “I can feel it,” he says. “The memory… it’s like chains, like a heart’s DNA--”

Dilan scribbles eager notes. 

“There’s darkness inside of her, too, already. And light. So much light. So beautiful.”

“Do you see anything?” Aeleus asks.

“I can feel it. The memories are… severed. Choppy. I wonder if I can--”

She screams, a blood-curdling sound that causes Ienzo to cover his ears. 

“Xehanort, that’s enough for now,” Even says.

* * *

They try it several more times on the girl. She complies, never fights, never asks questions; but it’s more of a sort of exhaustion, Even figures, than a lack of will. He wonders if it’s the darkness tiring her out, or else she’s sick.

So they know memories are in chains, and they’re in the heart; and that within the heart exists darkness as well as light. Stuff their studies all implied; now there’s proof. Even’s checking the girl when he sees it; a slight, almost imperceptible curl of darkness, mistakable for her dark hair. The fogginess and vacancy are gone from her eyes. He almost wonders if Xehanort’s been able to heal her. “You don’t know what you’re messing with,” she says urgently. “You have to stop this now.”

“Did you remember something?” he asks gently.

She screams and clutches at her chest. The room smells like smoke. “You can’t--you can’t--”

He isn’t sure how he knows; he jumps back and slams the door. She’s still wailing, pounding on the window, the sound barely muffled by Plexiglas.

“What’s going on?” Dilan asks. Ienzo’s eyes are wide, and Aeleus is frozen in horror.

“I was merely checking her vitals,” Even says breathlessly. “I don’t know what--”

“Oh,” Xehanort says softly, almost as if in a trance. He walks slowly towards them, pushing past Even and Ienzo numbly. He rests his palm on the window, his gold eyes vacant. “I--”

“Boy, what did you do?” Even asks.

“I thought the darkness was making her stronger, but it’s…” He covers his mouth. “It’s devouring her--”

Aside from the keening, the room is deathly silent until they hear Braig’s “...The  _ hell _ ?”

Xehanort’s head snaps up, and for a long, long moment the two held eye contact. Braig approaches slowly, tentatively, and reaches for the crossbow at his waist.

“No,” Xehanort says. “We must study this.”

“Really? Cause I’m not sure I want to find out what that’s becoming.”

In an instant, “she” became a “that.”

“It won’t last long,” Xehanort says. “This is for… we have to know. Can’t you see what this is saying about human nature?”

It isn’t quick, in fact; she screams for hours, wordless, agonized shrieks. At first, Ienzo sits with his hands over his ears, but once it becomes clear the screaming isn’t going to end, he lets go. There’s something cold in his eyes, something Even hasn’t noticed before. If the boy truly is sensitive to darkness, he must be feeling something. 

The screaming stops. They all approach the door warily, sure the girl’s dead; but this is not what’s facing them. She no longer looks human; her body is the color of ink, her hands and feet elongated into claws, her eyes a glowing sort of gold. 

Wordlessly, Ienzo presses his forehead against the girl’s door. “...Heartless,” he whispers. “It’s gone.”

“He’s right,” Xehanort mutters. “The darkness has taken her heart.”  
  
And so it begins.

* * *

They spend most of their days in that lab, examining the new being, the Heartless; though Even is not here always. Two new pupils are accepted as Ansem’s junior apprentices. It’s not an uncommon process--the king has done it several times over the years--but Even figured with both Ienzo and Xehanort, there would be no need. It’s not like either of these boys join them, anyway; they have a bit of ladder-climbing to do. As he is still technically the one in charge of their training (though it feels increasingly ersatz), Even spends time with the boys. The quieter one, Isa, does have quite a bit of promise; intelligent, ingenious, and creative. As for the other, he can make the grade, but Even can’t figure out what on earth the boy is here for. He’s obnoxious; he interrupts constantly; he’s found poking around where he shouldn’t (perilously close to their lab); he’s often out of uniform and refers to Even by his first name.

Though he has hoped Ienzo would perhaps take with them, particularly Isa, the boy has no interest in socializing. He’s focused instead wholly on the Heartless, the girl, studying it (her?). They try to take samples from the Heartless, but it has no matter, and feels strangely intangible to the touch. 

Between caring for Ienzo and educating the new apprentices, Even, again, finds himself increasingly pulled away from the lab. When he finally returns, he notes with horror that the divided cells he placed aside have died, becoming nothing more than black smoke in a petri dish. A heart is more than darkness. But how do they harness light? Is it the same?

There are also more subjects; volunteers, ones without amnesia. They are being quietly interviewed by Ienzo and Aeleus. The boy seems to have a natural aptitude for guiding the conversation, something Even’s never witnessed; women, in particular, tend to be tickled by this. “Aren’t you adorable?” more than one asks. At first, this seems to make Ienzo bristle, but soon, Even observes (and it makes him feel something cold and hard, something upsetting), the boy leans into this angle; using his stature as a way to get the answers he wants.

He never thought Ienzo could be manipulative.

Some of them are kept overnight, for “extended testing” and “sleep studies”, but Even sees Xehanort disappear inside each roomette, with any of the others (even Braig?). This goes on for several days; one woman asks to see her daughters (a set of twins) in the next room, wants to go home. 

“I’m sorry,” Xehanort says. “But not quite yet.”

Even can feel this is getting out of hand. Once was enough, the one creature horrifying. Yes, all people have darkness, did they really need more Heartless? Yet, the scientist in him, growing louder than the rest of him, is intrigued, almost intoxicated; after all,  _ one _ is not a decent sample size. Nothing can be proven with  _ one. _ They’d need at least a hundred, if not more, to come to a universal conclusion--what is wrong with him?

“Sir?” It’s Isa speaking to him now, in the classroom space where he meets the two juniors twice a week. He hands him the test Even gave them. “Are you okay?”

He forces a smile. “Kind of you to ask. I’m merely tired, that’s all.”

The boy draws his hands behind his back, but doesn’t return to his desk. The other, Lea, seems to be hard at work, one hand in his hair, his eyes full of confusion. “Do you… smell that?” Isa asks.

Even cants his head slightly. “What?”

“It smells like something’s burning,” Isa says gently. “Lea thinks so too.”

“It stinks,” the redhead agrees.

Even sniffs; try as he might, he has no idea what they speak of. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Might be electrical,” Isa remarks. “Thank you for the lesson. I’m going to go to the library for a little while.”

* * *

He tries clearing his nose with coffee beans, rubbing alcohol; he smells  _ nothing _ other than the scents of the two substances. For about an hour he wanders around like a lunatic, sniffing various hallways. It all just smells normal; dust, food preparation, old books, laundry. 

Odd. Perhaps the two were playing a prank on him. He won’t put it past Lea. And the two are awfully buddy-buddy. No matter. 

When he returns to the lab, he can tell immediately that something’s changed. The lights seem dim; it’s almost gloomy. He notes, with something approaching horror (and, oddly, jubilation, a sensation only getting stronger the longer he stands here), that all of the doors are closed. Occupied. 

“...That’s twenty-six,” Dilan murmurs, scribbling something on a clipboard.

“Twenty-seven,” Ienzo corrects. “The one in 4-B just went up.”

Even approaches them, perturbed. “Twenty-seven?” he asks.

Dilan raises an eyebrow. “Heartless,” he says, as though it’s obvious. “We had to release the Miller twins and their mother, but don’t worry, I doubt they’ll say anything unseemly. Xehanort made sure of that.”

“Twenty- _ seven _ ?” He hasn’t been gone that long; before there was just the one. 

Xehanort emerges from one of the rooms, slamming shut its pocket door. The occupant screams, the sound muffled quickly. “We’ve made some changes, since you’ve been gone. We appreciate you continuing to give us a good face, Even. It’s very valuable.”

Even notes the absence of the “sir.” He turns slowly. The doors are different, heavier; the windows have a reinforced inlay. 

Xehanort smiles pleasantly. Ienzo’s next to him, holding a clipboard. “Shall I catch you up on what’s happened?”  
  
They do not need to tell him, not really. Xehanort’s seeking to replicate what happened with the girl, with X-- “Oh, we’re using numbers now”--in order to prove the universality of darkness in the heart. “My thoughts next are to look into a scale of age. Are we born pure? Are children pure, as thought in the myths?” (At this, Ienzo’s head snaps up, and Even’s heart gives a weird twitch.) “Are we at some point changed, transformed?”

“Biting from the apple of knowledge?” Even asks sourly.

Xehanort shrugs. “Perhaps.” Braig just so happens to be toying with an apple. Cheekily, he takes a bite. “But my biggest discovery--perhaps the most important--is that we’ve found the realm of darkness.”

“You found it,” he repeats. “Just like that.”

“Not quite.” He stands up. “It’s easy for me to find the darkness now. I know wizards and magicians use their magic to teleport--I figured, the theory might be the same.” He holds out his palm. An oblong of darkness appears with a faint hiss and, Even realizes, the smell of smoke. “I’ve gone into it myself. There’s a whole  _ world _ in there, one not bound by physics! And there are more, so many more, Heartless. I think--I think we can use it to travel. To leave this world behind.”

“...That so.” He feels numb. 

“You don’t seem very pleased, Even.”

He forces a smile. “On the contrary. It’s merely a lot to wrap one’s head around.”

He bobs his head once. “Of course. Just think--we can apply what we learn here to whoever-- _ whatever _ \--is out there. This is--the building blocks of the very universe.”

“Yes…” He feels it now, the pull of the thrill, his mind racing with the possibilities, a pull that makes him feel the most himself since-- And of course, if they can understand  _ life itself _ , that would make his creation all the easier to realize. “Yes.”

Xehanort smiles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

* * *

It feels like a million years since his last touchpoint with Ansem. So much has changed. Fifty-one brand new beings--his own brief, overwhelmed journey into the realm of darkness with Xehanort--the fact that his newest attempt with the embryos is still alive in its incubator. In reality it’s only been a few weeks.

“Don’t you look awfully pleased with yourself,” Ansem says. Even isn’t sure what to read into the tone, but Ansem smiles. “I take it things are going well?”

“Oh, extremely,” he admits. “Both Ienzo and Xehanort are invaluable assets.” Ienzo is technically too young to be considered a true apprentice, but it's all just paperwork at this point. The boy has thrown himself wholeheartedly into the project, is just as productive as the rest of them. 

“I do wish I had more time to spend with you, but I’m afraid things are… intensely complicated at the moment. Between the city… Ienzo… the new junior apprentices… Well, you know I’d rather prioritize their learning than my personal pursuits. But I would like to see it.”

His heart about stops. “You would?”

Ansem raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I? I was there in the beginning. I should at the very least like to be a witness.”

Even nods, his heart pounding. “Of course, Master. We’d be very pleased to have you.”

“Excellent. I’ll make sure to set aside the time… say next week?”

“We’ll be ready.” He swallows. “I should go. It’s nearly dinnertime. It helps to keep Ienzo on a schedule.”

“Certainly.” He’s tapping the tips of his fingers together, an anxious gesture. Is this calculated? Does he feel Even’s paranoia? Or is he simply preoccupied with other matters? “Even?”

He turns. “Yes, Master?”

“There is one small thing.” His grin becomes more affable. “I’m positive it’s just a rumor--every now and again some hooligan or another will circulate them--but they say they can hear screaming, at night.”

He forces his expression into one of bored contempt; but yet, haven’t Braig and Dilan been saying the same thing? “A silly ghost story,” he asserts.

“Yes,” Ansem says, though something’s closed off in his eyes. “I’m sure. And I’m certain this has nothing to do with those missing persons cases?”

Even blinks; this is news to him, so he knows his surprise is genuine. “The what?”

“There are over seventy-five people missing. Once the number grows high enough, the authorities are required to report it to me. Funnily, it started shortly after I forbade young Xehanort from carrying out his manic experiments.”

Even truly feels the creep of panic now. 

All affability has drained out of Ansem’s face now. He leans forward, across the desk. “Even, do you know anything about this?”

“You know I don’t.” He tries to make his indignation obvious. “As if I would ever do such an ugly, despicable thing. I took an oath, Master.”

He settles back in his chair, but the glint in his eye is still there. “You know I trust you,” he says. “But it never hurts to be too careful.”

Even nods. “Of course. I can only imagine how much infighting you must deal with. Now I must go.”

He nods, once. “...Be well.”

He leaves the office with his mask in tact, but he can feel the panic taking over. Ansem knows. He  _ knows _ . Once he comprehends it all, Even would no doubt be taken in--all of them--worse, he can’t even remember what the consequences for something like this would be. He all but runs downstairs to the others. He feels faint, numb.

“Even?” Aeleus asks. “You look--”

“He knows,” he says through his teeth. “Ansem. He’s figured it out. You  _ idiots. _ Did you think nobody would notice the people missing?”

Dilan guides him gently over to a chair. He’s gasping for breath now. Ienzo approaches Even. “What will happen to us?” he asks softly.

“Nothing will happen to you, child. I promise.”

Xehanort’s eyes are closed. “I know what we can do.” Over Ienzo’s shoulder, he mouths, “Let’s meet after dark.”

* * *

Once the boy is in bed, they reconvene.

“I’m afraid you won’t be happy with what I have to say,” Xehanort says. “But I’ve been weighing the options--our work is so much more important than the small fry. So to speak.” He’s asked them to meet in a courtyard, of all places, and his back is to them. The spring wind is cold. “Ansem will never allow us to do this work. It does not matter to him that the subjects have consented. He’s up on his moral high horse--despite the fact that this was basically his idea in the first place. After all, nobody’s  _ died _ . They’re just… different. Why is our progress being stopped by a bunch of silly laws?”

Dilan squints at him. “So what do you propose? A coup? What then? You know nothing about how this city functions.”

“No, no, not a coup. Rather… Ansem’s going to go on a trip.”

Even feels shaky, nauseous now. “Is that a euphemism?”

Xehanort smiles. “Not at all. I think he’d find the realm of darkness fascinating. He’ll learn--he’ll understand why we’re doing all this. And he can no doubt learn to return whenever he so wishes.”

Even’s heart beats heavily. “What will we tell Ienzo?”

He thinks. “...That he’s gone mad,” he says softly. “Isn’t it true? Drunk on silly, bureaucratic power? He thinks he can control what we can and cannot learn? The boy’s better off without his mind blunted by such… petty matters.”

Again Even feels himself acting. “That’s fairly well reasoned, I suppose,” he says.

“So next week, when he comes… that’s what we’ll do. And Ienzo will conveniently be away. You can be with him, if you so wish.”

A plan comes to mind. “He may find that a comfort.”

Xehanort smiles. “Does that work for everyone?”

Aeleus’s face is unreadable; Dilan looks shaken, but it’s quickly replaced with steely resolve. “Of course,” he says. “Whatever you say is best.”

“...Quite. Well. I hope you have a good night, gentlemen. Sleep well.”

Even bobs his head and turns to leave the corridor. 

“Wait,” he hears Xehanort says.

_ Blast. _ “What is it?” he asks, politely. 

“Even.” He comes a bit closer. “I know you and Ansem have been affiliated for so many years. Doing this will not be difficult for you, will it?”

He shakes his head. Ienzo is way more important than Ansem; and much more vulnerable. The choice, he notes, is almost effortless. “We’ve been at odds for some time, as I’m sure you well know.”

“I just… want to make sure.”

“As you said. He will find it… enlightening. He may very well thank us.”

In the dim light, his eyes almost seem to glow. “I’m sure. As long as you’re on the right side. After all, considering you’re  _ legally _ in charge of research and development, should you not be able to go through with it, this will all be on you. You know I don’t want that, right?”

It’s a threat if Even’s ever heard one. “Of course, Xehanort. You’re always so considerate.”

He holds out his hand. “I’m looking forward to our continued partnership.”

Even takes it, noting how cold, how papery, it feels. “...The feeling is mutual.”

* * *

Even bides his time.

He’s shocked, but relieved, when Ansem doesn’t show sooner. He isn’t sure why the king is allowing them this much time. Maybe to dispose of the evidence? Maybe he’s building a case against them, pooling resources? Either way, Even’s strung out and anxious.

It’s time to go.

Maybe it’s a cowardly, foolhardy move, but he’s taking Ienzo and leaving. Xehanort is obviously twisted, the darkness no doubt only helping. They’ll go into hiding, leave this city.

And go where?

Another world? Even has no power over darkness like Xehanort does; he doesn’t know if he wants to expose himself any more, or Ienzo, for that matter. But beyond the city limits there’s just stone, and crystal, and empty barren wilderness. He’s positive if they try to hide somewhere in this city they’ll be found.

He has to try something. This clearly isn’t going to end well. What if they should fall to darkness themselves? (But, the clinical part of his mind, growing louder and stronger, wouldn’t that be fascinating? To cast aside what it means to be human, to  _ rise above _ ?) No, he’s becoming a lunatic.

He packs some things for them, hides them among the frippery in his closet. He tries to be pleasant, subservient, towards Xehanort, putting up just enough of a fight so that he seems himself. But truly Even feels as if he’s been backed into a corner; because he has been.

_ I’m such a fool. _

He no longer cares if punishment befalls him; it’s Ienzo he’s worried about. Should Ansem disappear, should he himself become… compromised, what should stop Xehanort from molding the small genius into another sharp tool for him to use? Breaking down the boy’s conscience before it’s even fully formed, allowing him to do--goodness knows what?

What if that’s what he’s wanted all along?

He considers telling Ansem. Confessing, baring his soul, taking whatever came his way. Maybe so long as it all stopped, should Xehanort and his colleagues be contained. But Xehanort has the power of darkness. He can merely escape, and try again, elsewhere.

The night before their plan is meant to be enacted, he waits until the others are asleep, until it’s so late as to be early. He dresses and approaches Ienzo’s bedroom door slowly.

The door’s already open. And Even knows what’s about to meet him.

The boy’s nowhere to be found. On his bed, reading the storybook Ienzo must have left behind, is Xehanort. “Oh, hello,” he says pleasantly, setting the book aside.

“Where’s the boy?” He keeps his tone neutral.

“No need to worry. He’s quite safe. Sound asleep." He crosses his legs. "You weren't about to do something reckless, were you?"

Even takes a quick breath; caught. He tries to remain composed.

"See, I need him," Xehanort explains slowly. "Your boy is not as innocent or as purehearted as you think, Even. He  _ likes _ this work. He's good at it. He knows  _ exactly _ the right ways to break a person down, how to make the darkness spread faster. He's incredible. I will not have you waste him."

"He's only doing this to please you. Because he's a  _ child. _ "

"Are you certain? Even, not everyone's born good. Some people have more darkness than others." He sighs. "But I digress. I didn't realize how soft you were… how weak. I thought you cared."

He says nothing.

"I believe in your replicas, Even. They can change the world… light a path to immortality. Place a heart in a new body… one can live infinitely."

"I see you went through my things."

"It was too tempting. You truly are a  _ brilliant _ researcher."

"Where's the boy?"

"What's it matter?  _ He's not yours. _ " A pause. “He's being freed. And you could be too, Even. Why do you hold so priggishly to such ties? All it's done is hurt you. Ansem's used you, manipulated you. He wants you all for himself. You could have the world."

He inhales shakily.

"...Besides. I'd hate for your record to be two for two, you know?"

Even blinks. "You'd joss him to keep me in line?"

Xehanort shrugs. "The choice is yours, Even. Or you could just leave. But either way the boy stays."

Even laughs; he can't help it. "You're so green, Xehanort," he says. "You understand nothing, you know nothing. A little power and you lose your head. No. That will not do."

"I've seen more than you know."

He's shaken the boy. Good. "You're so paranoid. You believe I'd leave now, when things are just getting exciting?"

Xehanort frowns. "I thought--"

"You thought what? Ienzo is prone to night terrors, and you remove him from his bed because you believe I'll--what? Take him? Disappear into the wilderness?" He clucks his tongue. “Only to die of starvation, or worse?”

"Why were you coming for him?"

"I check on him every night. Ask the others if you don't believe me."

"And the packs in your closet?"

"Supplies for a bad storm--they've gotten worse since you're arrived." He's infinitely glad he did not add clothing to them. "Xehanort. So quickly you feel so threatened. I'm on your side." Even can see him wavering. "Do you realize how long I've waited for an opportunity like this? As if Ansem would ever let me. I'm his babysitter--little more."

Xehanort grins. An intelligent child--but a naive one. "I must admit I'm relieved, Even."

"As long as I can assure you." He squeezes his hand, gently, trying not to shudder at the feel of it. "Now if you would please put Ienzo back in his bed."

"...Of course."

He turns to leave, his heart hammering. "So, is all in place for Ansem's… trip?"

He nods. On his way out, his shoulder brushes Even's. "Not to worry. It's already been done."

It feels like getting stabbed. "...Even better. Get some rest, Xehanort. You've earned it." He doesn't breathe until Braig brings the boy back. He's unharmed, deeply asleep; Even is sure they've sedated him. He smiles at Braig, and once they're in the hall, "I pray things went well?"

He chuckles darkly. "Put up a hell of a fight, the old codger. But he’s an academic. Soft.” He smirks. “No offense.”

Even tries to return the smirk. It takes all the rest of his energy. “None taken. I’m stronger than you think. Well. I will see you tomorrow, Braig.”

He goes over to the door. “Nighty-night.”

Even waits until Braig’s footsteps retreat; he can’t be entirely sure, the man has such a soft tread. He checks Ienzo’s arms for the pinprick of a hypodermic needle. He finds none, but they could have slipped it into a glass of juice, a snack. His breathing is much too deep and even; Ienzo hardly ever sleeps like this. “Oh, little one,” he says softly. “What have we ever gotten into?”

His heart is racing, nausea and dread pumping through his body, making him shake. He settles into the chair at Ienzo’s bedside, trying to compose himself. 

Ansem in the realm of darkness.

There’s no way to stop Xehanort now. Not without risking Ienzo's life, or his own.

_ My old friend. I’m so sorry. _

* * *

Ienzo doesn’t rouse until mid-morning; normally he’s up at dawn. He stumbles into the kitchen blearily, rubbing his eyes. He flops into a chair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Even says. “You seemed exhausted last night, so I didn’t wake you.” He places a bowl of warm cereal in front of him. “Perhaps today you should work on your studies? It’s been a little while.”

He turns a bit green around the gills. “I’m not hungry,” he mumbles.

“You need to eat. Keep your blood sugar up.”

He shakes his head.

“Well, then at least have some juice.”

“I don’t feel well.” He admits this painfully. “I feel sick…”

What on earth have they given him?

“Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll bring you something to settle your stomach. Must’ve caught a bug, that’s all. No wonder you were so tired.”

He groans a little, but complies.

Even barely slept at all last night, full of knots. He thought he would feel worse; he feels not much of anything. Which may be for the best, if he has to deal with this. He gives Ienzo some medication, a wastebasket to be sick into.

“You don’t have to stay with me,” he says weakly. “You should go… work in the--”

“That’s quite alright.”

“I want you to. Please. They need you.”

“I think they’ll be fine for one day.”

“Where’s Master? Is he still going to come today?”

Even freezes. He hopes his face is placid. “He was called away, I’m afraid. He should be back soon.”

“Is that… good?”

“For the time being. Until we can convince him of what we’re doing.”

Ienzo heaves weakly, but nothing comes up. Even pats him on the back. “I can hear them,” he says softly. “Screaming. It has to stop--”  
  
Even’s blood runs cold. But yet, it is something of a relief to know Ienzo is not as callous as he acts around Xehanort. “All right. All right.” 

“We’re hurting them.”  
  
He agrees, but struggles to console the boy. “They’re doing this for science, Ienzo. For the greater good.”  
  
“Make it stop!” He actually is sick this time, and Even holds the hair away from his eyes. 

Once Ienzo’s through, Even wipes his face with a damp cloth. “When you’re down there,” he begins. “Do you do it because they asked you to? Or because you want to?”

“I…” He sniffles, trying not to cry. “The… it makes me feel… when I’m there…”

“Think about what you need to say. Take your time.”

He nods. After a moment, the boy seems to compose himself. “When I’m there it feels…  _ good _ ,” he admits. “Making them this way… feels like we’re… changing the world. But when I’m away… I start to hear it. Even, am I… crazy?”

“Not at all, little one.” He’s starting to feel numb again. “Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll check on you in a little while.” He pats the boy on the head, tucks the covers around him a little more closely. He tries to smile, but he’s shaking a--not a good sign for his own physical condition. The stress he’s under is no doubt bad for him. But what is he to do? Even tightens his ponytail, slips on his lab coat. 

It must be darkness, making them feel this way--Even has felt it too, that sense of euphoria, of power, of discovery--because they truly are discovering so  _ much _ . It certainly must not be good to expose oneself to it for so long. They’ve been treating it like radiation, with all the same precautions, but he has a feeling something so simple as lead will not stop darkness. They need something else, if this is to continue.

If this is to continue…

Must it?

He needs to speak with Aeleus and Dilan--away from Xehanort’s prying eyes. He’s the most senior apprentice. In Ansem’s absence, he should have the most power, the most control. He tries to smooth his expression into one of indifference as he punches in the numbers.

The smell down here is stronger now, acrid and smoky, darkness rising from the cells (that’s what they are at this point) like vapor. He gags a little, but quickly straightens. “Good morning,” he says. “I hope all is well?”

“Where’s Ienzo?” Aeleus asks. There’s something like guilt in his stoic face--with his knowledge of botanicals, Even doesn’t doubt for a moment that he was the one to drug the boy. Such trust Ienzo has for him--and how quickly this gentle man abuses it. The darkness is changing him. Dare he voice his concerns?

“Oh, poor thing seems to have caught a stomach bug,” he says breezily. “He’s resting now. The vomiting tired him out.” He notes, with pleasure, Aeleus and Dilan both wince and won’t make eye contact. So they were both in on it. Very well.

“He is rather fragile, isn’t he?” Xehanort asks, with a shake of his head. “No matter. Perhaps we can find a way to make him stronger.”

“...Quite.” Something breaks through his numbness, an indignation. “Has anything changed?”

“We’re at something of a standstill,” Dilan admits, keeping his eyes stubbornly on the report in front of him. “The numbers seem to have stabilized. The initial levels of darkness in the subjects seems to vary, but within it there are standard deviations. It’s only a correlation at this point, but look--” He pushes a spreadsheet across the table towards Even. He sits and takes it.

Even takes it all in. Gender, occupation, age--he notes that men at or near their prime, in positions in or adjacent to authority, seem to be the most vulnerable to it all. “How funny,” he says. “According to this, we’re the most susceptible.”

“Indeed,” Xehanort says, with a smile. 

“I figured we needed to devise more ways to protect ourselves--I don’t think the lead is cutting it.” He gestures to the cells in the hallway, the darkness curling from below. “Very well. I will work on it. The rest of you may proceed as you wish.”

And he does work on it; but something like this serves as a perfect excuse to examine their behaviors, how they were reacting. They  _ are _ different. The subjects are less human beings and more numbers. Even notes with a strange distance how easily Dilan shrugs off a woman begging for mercy. Should he intervene?

(Should he intervene, would Xehanort make good on that threat?)

He weaves together several different metal alloys, finds that darkness seems repelled by them; he weaves them into a scrap of fabric, one he covers a mouse with. When exposed to darkness, the mouse survives.

This is a process that takes several weeks; in the meantime they have other things to worry about. The city is abuzz with news of Ansem’s disappearance; nobody seems to buy the “trip” route, especially since if Ansem wants vacation, the time needs to be approved. The city officials are concerned; they interview all of them, but return to Even several times. Each and every single time he pretends to be dumbfounded and as confused as they are; after all, why would he leave without saying something to any of them?

Even knows this is his chance to ask for help, to turn himself in, to  _ stop _ them. And perhaps it’s the thrall of darkness, or Xehanort’s threat on Ienzo’s life, but he denies everything. 

On the matter of Ienzo…

The boy’s not stupid. He’s no longer buying their excuses that Ansem is merely on a trip. He’s become surly, distrustful. Finally, they agree to sit him down and tell him Xehanort’s truth (really, wouldn’t the  _ actual _ truth be far more damaging to the poor boy? Even can’t have him falling apart with the darkness so close, it’ll claim his heart--). 

He approaches them, his teal eyes making him appear much older than merely eight. “Where’s Master Ansem?” he asks.

Even reaches out towards him, but Braig places a hand on his shoulder. Xehanort crouches down to Ienzo’s level. “He had to go away,” he says.

“Go… away?” He raises his eyebrow.

This breaks through Even’s numbness; he turns away and retreats to the window, unable to watch this play out. 

“He wasn’t well,” Xehanort continues. “He’s… he’s gone mad. He’s abandoned us.”

Ienzo inhales; it’s a painful sound. Even shuts his eyes.

“You poor child,” he says. “You’ve already lost so much--but we couldn’t stand to lie to you.”

He gasps again, a sound on the verge of a sob; Even recognizes it immediately. He turns, his own heart racing. “He’s panicking.” He crosses over to the boy, seeing him tremble and struggle for breath. He draws him gently into his arms. “Deep breaths, little one. Count with me.”

It takes him a long time to calm down, far longer than any of his nightmares. Even finally agrees to give him a tranquilizer. After this, Even too must lie down for a while, guilt washing around the ache in his heart. 

It’s too late to get out of this; maybe the best option is to go through? Give Xehanort what he wants? What  _ does _ he want?

Ienzo is never quite the same afterwards. Like the beginning of his stay, he’s next to numb; there’s nothing behind his eyes. He does what he’s told no matter what it is--chores he hates, calculations the others have no time for. And anything Xehanort asks, up to and including speaking to their subjects. He’s gone cold.

If Even can perfect this protective fabric--if he, too, can learn to use darkness--they’ll go far away from here. He holds himself to this grimly, even as the darkness tempts him, calls to him, makes him want to push their subjects farther, past the threshold of inhumanity, even as he does so.  _ This will end. Go through, not out. _

It says a lot about the state of Radiant Garden’s affairs, that the officials never seem to connect them to the missing people the way Ansem did. Or perhaps they’re too terrified--not that Even can blame them. Braig, Aeleus, and Dilan take rounds, experimentally; they confirm that no one comes near the castle gates, when before visitors would come in and out for all sorts of different reasons. The staff, too, seem to be disappearing. It takes Even too long to realize this is where their remaining subjects are coming from.

A bastion of darkness settles over them all.

* * *

“I’m afraid it’s inelegant,” Even says at one of their roundtables; Ienzo sits with his eyes focused on the middle distance. “But it’s something.” He lays the bolt of fabric onto the table. It feels odd, not quite like any fabric he’s encountered, but like anything else it’s synthetic. It originally was white, but the chemicals seem to have reacted, and now it’s black.

Xehanort runs his hands along the fabric, a small smile lighting up his face. “Oh, yes. This will do perfectly.”

They fashion lab coats with it, clothing and shoes. Even hoped that the layer of protection would help with the thrall, especially with the rest of them, but he still feels it, pulling him deeper into a place he swore he’d never go, a place below ethics, below morals. He barely bats an eye when Xehanort suggests they examine children’s hearts. He wonders--hopes--that whatever Xehanort discovers can help Ienzo.

Which is why he shouldn’t be surprised when it actually begins happening with those kids, when--  
  
“Dilan, I will not stand for this. He is too young to consent.” He’s trembling.  
  
The man’s violet eyes are cold, empty. “We’ve treated Ienzo with respect. I think he deserves a say. It’s only fair. He is different than the average child. I think it would make the data quite fascinating.”  
  
“I will not allow it.” He tries to hold to this feeling, to use it to dig himself out of the pull of darkness. He used to despise this paternal instinct, and now it’s all he has left.  
  
“...You’ve grown too soft for the boy.” Dilan sneers. 

Even lowers his voice, all too certain that little pitchers have big ears; Ienzo, in the corner, gives no indication that he’s heard them, but that’s about meaningless. “It’s shocking that you have no respect for his wellbeing,” he spits. “After all this time.”

“Of course I respect it. That’s why we would get his  _ consent. _ ”

Even shakes his head. “I will do everything in my power to prevent this.”

“I figured you of all people understand the work we’re doing,” he replies, with equal venom. “We must let go of such paltry bonds, to rise above. To do the work we’re meant to. Whatever tenderness you have for him is useless. I suggest you get rid of it.” He scoffs and leaves the room, the lab door sliding shut behind him.

They make another discovery, perhaps the most disturbing yet. (Is any of this disturbing anymore?) For the first time, one of the Heartless leaves behind a body. But instead of being wreathed in darkness, it’s wreathed in grayness, in silver, a sort of matter that’s physically difficult for the eye to perceive.

Braig shakes his head. “That’s no body,” he says.

And Xehanort laughs. “No. Indeed it isn’t.”

* * *

There are fewer Nobodies (Xehanort fancies himself a real poet) than Heartless; they soon come to the conclusion that one must be rather stronghearted for the body and will to exist after death. The others refuse to use that word, referring instead to it as “transformation,” but in the purest medical sense it’s true. None of these “Nobodies” have beating hearts, organs, or blood; like the Heartless, it’s impossible to take samples. They vary slightly in shape, some appearing more human than others, but all looking a bit off, a bit alien, all lacking lucidity. Without asking the rest of them, Xehanort has Braig calmly exterminate them. If there was any doubt before, now there’s none. They’ve out and out committed murder.

Even’s surprised he doesn’t feel anything. Then again, he feels so little these days other than anger and exhaustion, with pinpricks of concern for Ienzo now and again. Murder seems the least harmful thing they’ve done.

Something seems to be rising, to be changing. He isn’t sure what.

Xehanort again gathers them in the courtyard; minus, he notices, Braig and Ienzo. “The fresh air is so lovely, isn’t it,” he says. “It does get rather stale down there.” Even’s no longer accustomed to seeing him in his normal apprentice clothing after all the black. “I have a proposition for the three of you; one a touch more radical than my last.”

“It would take little to shock me anymore,” Dilan says tiredly. Aeleus just blinks. 

“We know now it is possible to separate the heart from the body,” he says. “That our stronger subjects had stronger Nobodies… ones more human. We’re men of science, of reason; we’ve resisted the pull of darkness this long, so we’re strong. But if we’re to continue to work with it… it may make sense, to let go of such things. For our own wellbeing.”

“Our hearts,” Dilan says incredulously. “That  _ is _ radical.”

Xehanort faces them. He looks, for the first time, utterly exhausted. “I don’t feel much of anything anymore anyway,” he admits. “And I’m not sure any of us do. What else do we need hearts for, anyway? They are merely things of pain… suffering… they hold us back from what we’re capable of.” He locks eyes with Even. “I’ve… figured out a way to do it. One which will not be nearly so painful or prolonged as those of our subjects. Without our hearts… we would be free to travel the realm of darkness safely. We could go anywhere… discover anything. There’s a whole World out there, waiting, that nobody knows about.”

“Do you believe this will help you with your memory?” Even asks. “Or did you forget this is where that all came from?”

The man smiles. “I no longer care about my memory. This is larger than me. Than us.” He pauses, to compose himself. “What do you think?”

Shocking Even, Aeleus murmurs, “I will volunteer myself.”

“I will too. I am also feeling numb,” Dilan says. “This may very well be… useful, regardless of the consequences.”

Xehanort turns to Even, a small smile on his face. “And you?”

“I…” He takes a breath. It would be good, to shed these chains; but is it natural? And how does he know it won’t kill him?

If he dies, who will look after the boy?

“What of Ienzo? He's a child, he's too young to make such a decision.”

Xehanort shakes his head. “We will not take Ienzo’s heart. If he decides, the boy can give it up in the future.”

Very well. “Yes… I shall…”

“Excellent.” His voice has gotten deeper as he’s gotten older. It’s almost like gravel. “I look forward to this new chapter in our lives.”

* * *

But nothing happens as expected.

The majority of that day is a blur to Even. They are examining their subjects’ hearts, pulled clean from their bodies and trapped in pods; Even watches Dilan’s fingers work across the keyboard in the computer room. Ienzo is next to him, standing on a chair, observing, along with Aeleus. Braig is polishing his crossbow, a look of boredom on his face.

All of a sudden there’s footsteps. “Were you expecting guests?” Even asks Xehanort.

The man’s gold eyes are deadly. “No.”

Two teenagers burst into the room; Isa and Lea, the neglected junior apprentices. “We know what you’re doing,” Lea yells. “We saw the lab, those people. We told the police. They’re going to get you.” Isa’s silent as he meets Even’s eyes, his green eyes positively smug. 

Xehanort cocks his head. “That so. Very well.”

He sounds awfully calm. Too calm. He approaches the boys slowly.

Quickly, faster than Even can perceive, Xehanort moves, and all of a sudden the boys are on the ground, darkness slowly encroaching them. He grabs Ienzo’s hand, he’s not sure why. “That was not necessary,” he says slowly. “They’re apprentices, they could’ve seen reason.”

“They only became apprentices to expose us,” Xehanort says. 

“They’re the ones who ransacked the lab,” Dilan says, with realization.

Braig looks up a moment from his polishing, sees the bodies, and resumes, numbly.

“Now is as good a time as any,” Xehanort says. “Don’t you agree?”

Dilan sighs, powers down the computer. “Quite.”

Even feels something for the first time in weeks; panic, and a deep, instinctual sensation that this isn’t right. He takes Ienzo’s hand; Ienzo’s gone still with fear, seeing Isa and Lea convulse in an odd silence. “The boy…” He says. “He shouldn’t have seen--” And then there’s a cold knowledge.

Xehanort has lied to him.

He draws Ienzo into his arms, tightly. The traumatized boy doesn’t fight him. Xehanort, so deftly, pierces Aeleus's chest with a Keyblade-- _ when did he get that?  _ “You fools,” he says, and his voice is trembling. “What are you doing?”

Xehanort sneers. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

He’s not sure why, but he tries to run; Ienzo’s gotten heavier over the years, making it more difficult than it used to be. Dilan trips him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Even throws his body over the boy’s, like a shield; the boy’s gasping in shock. “Take me,” he yells. “But don’t hurt the boy!”

The three of them close in on him. Even braces himself, clinging to Ienzo. 

Xehanort’s gaze is pitiless. “The boy should’ve known better than to play in darkness.”

The tendrils descend upon him, upon  _ them _ . It’s not painless as he's said, but perhaps the most agonizing thing Even’s experienced, his cells changing on a molecular level, everything coming undone. He’s still somehow awake, somehow able to meet Ienzo’s horrified eyes; he can see the darkness crawling over the boy as well. If anything, trying to protect him made him Xehanort’s victim all the faster.

Ah.

In his last moments of consciousness, he feels the tears in his eyes, cold as ice.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a Nobody, Vexen is freed from everything Even held dear. Twelve years pass.

He wakes slowly.

He’s in a bed, a bed not his own, in a strange, blank, barren room. He sits up.

“Ah, friend, you’re awake,” says the voice.

He turns towards the source of it. Xehanort is dressed in all black, but it’s different than the lab coats they’ve worn; it’s got beading, zippers instead of a catch.

He blinks, once. His mind is curiously clear. He reaches up to his jugular to take his pulse, noting first that there is one, then that it’s almost unnervingly slow and steady. “I suppose it worked?” he asks, his voice flat. "We've no hearts?"

“Quite--we are Nobodies." He tilts his head slightly. "We’ve been worried about you. You’re the last one to wake. I thought you may not have made it.”

He stares down at his hands; they look the same, and so does the long blonde hair on his shoulder, freed of its usual restraint. “I see.”

“How do you feel?”

“Very much alert,” he admits. Less physically tired than he can remember.

“Emotionally?”

It’s an odd word to hear out loud. He realizes he is numb, but not a human numbness; moreso an emptiness, but a very bearable one. A comfortable one. “My head is clear,” he says instead. It’s true; unfettered by emotion, he processes this all easily, without stress. 

Xehanort smiles, but there’s nothing in it. “Excellent. Seems this experiment was a success. While you were resting, we’ve chosen a sign of brotherhood, new names to usher us into this new life. I’ve chosen one for you--should you want it.”

“And what is that?”

“Vexen,” he says slowly. “The Recusant’s Sigil is said to be good luck. I’ve added it to all our names--anagrammed them.”

“How creative of you.” There’s no sarcasm behind it; nothing at all. “Very well. I suppose that is who I’ll be.” He sits up, bringing his legs over the side of the bed. “Where is Ien--the little one?”

“He goes by Zexion now,” Xehanort says. “He was the first to wake, after myself, of course. The boy seems to have taken to this new life easier than I ever could have guessed. It suits him. He has no more fear, no more sensory overload. He’s purely himself.”

Hearing this, Vexen feels nothing for the boy; no concern. It’s liberating, he realizes. “That is good news indeed. Your name already contains an X. Though I don’t suppose only that will do.”

He shakes his head slowly. “They call me Xemnas.”

* * *

There’s much to do, and it’s all so much easier than it used to be.

They’re somewhere else now, a place still taking shape. What starts as a two-story building morphs into something far larger than Radiant Garden’s castle ever was. As soon as he craves a resource, it seems to appear, seemingly out of nowhere; soon he’s able to identify this morphing substance as the same that the lesser Nobodies were made of. They study their new bodies for weeks, months; they discover their immense capabilities for magic. Zexion, in a very short amount of time, becomes a rather skilled mage; necessary, as the Heartless target him mercilessly, despite Lexeaus’s best efforts to protect him. While he and Vexen continue to spend time together, for studies, they’re beginning to drift, but Vexen doesn’t care much. There’s nothing behind the boy’s eyes aside from a cold calculation.

They find that they have weapons, extensions of their wills, each personalized to its user; more exciting yet, they have their own magics, in alignment with their personalities, a sort of expression of the deepest essences of the self. Vexen’s newfound command over ice is infinitely useful in his experiments, though it is disappointing that it is just ice, not water.

It seems every time they come to a momentous discovery--of worlds, of hearts, of matter--Xemnas always dangles something out of reach. For this Organization, Kingdom Hearts will be the key to all knowledge. Vexen works towards this goal with pleasure. In the chaotic, entropic nothingness--something entirely different than darkness or light--his experiments thrive, and after years, the replicas begin to take shape, form. They incubate.

Six years have passed in a blink; for the first time Xemnas speaks on his desire to gather more members. He needs a Keyblade wielder, so he says, to reap hearts. So they all, in their own ways, go searching across the worlds. And they do find someone, a humanoid Nobody, a seventeen-year-old boy they call Demyx. But the disappointments come hard and fast with this one. Initially, Vexen is hopeful; the boy’s power over water seems to be something nearly prodigal. But he is not very academically bright. He’s lazy, he would rather fool around with his weapon, an instrument called a sitar. They all can barely tolerate him, though inexplicably, Xigbar strikes up a rapport with the boy. Very well. If someone of high rank can keep him in line, all the better.

Because they have ranked themselves. Of course, Xemnas is the leader; as the youngest, it’s only natural for Zexion to be the sixth of the six original apprentices; Saïx, Axel, and Demyx follow when the latter arrives; but internally there’s some squabbling over the rest of the numbers. Vexen is beyond disappointed with his own designation of only fourth, but no matter, he works alone the majority of the time anyway.

In quick succession, they’re joined by three more--Luxord, Marluxia, Larxene. Not one is a Keyblade wielder, and aside from the passing intrigue of studying the first humanoid Nobody that is a biological woman, they are nothing but a thorn in Vexen’s side. Xemnas’s frustration is obvious, and Vexen feels mostly the same.

All of a sudden Zexion is no longer a little boy, but a young man. He had, more or less, what seemed to be a normal puberty. He never expresses interest in sex or sexuality, unlike some of the other members; but then again, Zexion was never a people person, and while Vexen knows that the scientist in him should want to investigate this potential quirk of Nobody biology, the part of him that once raised Ienzo is repulsed at questioning the young man farther about these matters. 

One of these days, when Zexion’s about fifteen, he arrives in Vexen’s lab. “Six,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Do you require assistance?”

Zexion smiles politely. “I hope to have a word, if that’s alright. I do hope I’m not interrupting anything.” It’s easy now for him to speak, to compose himself; as Xemnas said,  _ purely himself. _ If anything, the boy is  _ too _ talkative.

“I can spare a few moments.”

“Very well. Then I’ll be brief. I’m aware our tutoring sessions take up a good deal of our time, time both of us could use more efficiently. I feel I’m far enough in my education to pursue it on my own. Though I must thank you for your years of working with me.” He bows a little. The sight of this old custom unnerves Vexen.

He says it so quickly, so simply. For some reason, Vexen is surprised--though shouldn’t he have seen this coming?

(And is he crazy, or is he feeling  _ hurt _ ? No--mustn’t. Nobodies cannot feel, though the neophytes love to pretend, especially Demyx. The miscreant must be rubbing off on him more than he thought. He curses the fact that they are both part of the reconnaissance team.)

Vexen smiles. “It was my pleasure. You know you’re very intelligent. I have the utmost faith in you. My door is always open for you, Zexion, should you have questions.”

“Thank you, Vexen. Good day.”

The years pass--they cannot find their Keyblade wielder, no matter how hard they try. The others are frustrated too, especially the neophytes, as they’re sent on the most search missions. At least there is  _ some _ progress--Heartless made, worlds brought under control of darkness, his replicas becoming more stable yet. Vexen hopes he may be able to get one to wield a Keyblade. 

Zexion turns eighteen. Vexen’s initial prediction was right; the young man is relatively small, slight, and probably always will be. While his face still is a bit soft, he’ll lose the babyishness in time. As the first person to truly come of age as a Nobody, he allows Vexen to prod him, somewhat indulgently. “I suppose it is interesting, though it would be more interesting if I knew the difference,” he admits, in a moment of unusual candor.

Vexen looks up at him on the table. He gently pulls free the needle that was taking his blood, and heals the tiny wound. Magic has made his doctoring less barbaric, simpler. “Would you rather have been human?” he asks.

He thinks about it. “I’ve been a Nobody ten years--longer than I was ever a human.”

“Yet, not a direct answer to my question.”

He rolls down the sleeve of his cloak. “I don’t believe so,” he says. “What I remember from that time is mostly negative--the panic attacks, the constant inundation of stimuli interpreted as pain, the nightmares, the untreated PTSD. But now… now I am stable, and in control of myself. I do not feel I’ve missed anything--though the neophytes insist the opposite.” He rolls his eyes. “As if I would ever find any of those shenanigans of interest.”

Vexen nods. “As long as you are fulfilled.”

“I am.” He pauses, smiles a bit. “I’m not the one who told you this, but the superior might soon have a mission for us. One elsewhere.”

His interest is piqued; but at the same time, he feels another wave of frustration that number  _ six _ is more privy to this information than he. “Elsewhere?”

Zexion shakes his head. “That’s all he said. Though who knows--he’s become more and more enigmatic over the years. It is… trying.”

Vexen chuckles. “Well, I doubt I’ll find anything different about these samples, but should there be anything of note, I’ll contact you.”

“Keep it for posterity,” he says, with a wave of his hand. “Who knows, I could be the first of many, to live this way.”

“Child, you have a strange sense of humor.”

* * *

Two things happen in quick succession--they find their Keyblade wielder, and Castle Oblivion is established as a second base. Roxas is an amnesiac, utterly zombified, more than just Nobody numbness. But considering the stories they’ve heard of Sora from Xemnas, that they were able to capture his Nobody is a feat in and of itself.

He’s forced to release his first successful replica to Xemnas. It really is a puppet--it will walk, talk, perform bodily functions--but it has no sense of self, not yet. He knows it’s too soon to let No. i into the field--it needs more extensive testing. Xemnas insists. They need insurance in case something were to happen to Roxas, mostly because Sora’s allies are searching for him. Not when they are so close to finally making progress on Kingdom Hearts. With it, knowledge and, perhaps for those interested, humanity again. 

Vexen isn’t sure of his own opinion on the matter. To be a Nobody is a sort of freedom; he can research, experiment without guilt, without the need for social interaction. But as Nobodies they do not technically exist, literally speaking; doesn’t that in itself negate everything that’s been discovered? 

So with what is almost anxiety, No. i is christened Xion, and welcomed into their ranks. But Vexen is not allowed to stay and observe it; he, and another replica, are needed in Castle Oblivion. He, Zexion, and Lexeaus are given dominion over the lower floors; Larxene, Axel, and Marluxia the upper. Most galling yet, Marluxia, number  _ eleven _ for god’s sake, is made their tentative leader. While Marluxia has proven himself time and again in the field and at the table, why does this man deserve such a rank?

But Zexion and Lexeaus do not want to hear him complain about it. “Everyone’s work is important here,” Zexion says softly, huddled over his lexicon, poetically called “Book of Retribution”--Vexen does not pretend to understand that boy’s mind. “Yours especially. Focus on the task at hand.”

It’s a big task for the boy (the man, Vexen reminds himself, he’s nineteen); they would be using Zexion’s extensive illusions on Sora, as Naminé leaches his memories. They cannot afford a heart that special to remain out in the wide world; not when he actually has the power to put an end to them. Vexen knows Zexion’s powerful, knows of his stamina; but maintaining so many complex illusions for so long was a lot to ask of him. Castle Oblivion seems to like the boy's magic, to hold its shape. Even so.  
  
But they discover more is afoot; namely, that the neophytes have insane ideas to overthrow Xemnas, using Sora. Quickly, Zexion, Lexeaus, and Vexen devise a plan. While Sora has arrived, Riku soon follows, lured there by a carefully placed clue in the realm of darkness. They’d use Riku--or some semblance of him--to stop Marluxia from using the boy. It takes a bit of cleverness. They have to make Marluxia think they’re on his side, so the replica again changes hands. 

But something goes wrong. The replica isn’t acting under their control, it’s developed its own will (what did they expect, forcing him into this so quickly). Marluxia, oh so casually, says that, unless Vexen can pacify the boy himself, he’ll report him and his failure, which can only go one way. Vexen's long had a feeling that he'd be eliminated once he outgrew his usefulness.

Very well.

So he fights the boy, and it’s much more difficult than he would have thought. The boy truly _is_ something prodigal, something nearly godlike. He’s defeated, but is still alive. He already knows what’s coming, and something gives way. He tells the boy how to get his memories back, how to discover Roxas, giving him the key to a Twilight Town. When they meet again, the boy’s  _ almost _ worked it out, what they are.

And then, to be crass, it hits the shit.

But he doesn’t expect  _ Axel _ to be the one to execute him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human once again, guilt washes over Even. He comes up with a plan to subvert the New Organization's goals.

“How is he? Has he yet stabilized?” He recognizes the deep voice almost instantly. Lexeaus.  _ Ah. So I lived. _

He can’t open his eyes, can’t, in fact, move at all. But the moment he’s conscious pain invades, his innards feeling vaguely liquified. 

A second voice, hoarse, almost inaudible--”No. Not yet.”

“You needn’t speak, Ienzo. I know it’s still painful.”

Ienzo?

“I’m fine,” the second voice mumbles. He doesn’t  _ sound _ fine; he sounds very ill, or worse. “You should--” A cough, one not full of phlegm but inflammation. 

“You’ve been taking good care of me. I’m back on my feet. You, on the other hand, need to rest. And to avoid talking for a little while.”

“Okay.”

A warm hand grasps his wrist, taking his pulse. A pen scribbles numbers. He must've been given painkillers; he sleeps.

* * *

This time he's able to open his eyes.

He recognizes the space instantly; it's his old med bay, in Radiant Garden. Why on earth is he here, not in his sterile, pristine facilities at the castle?

Lexeaus had called Zexion Ienzo.

Oh dear.

Was it possible? Had they--regained hearts somehow? Had they found the answers in Kingdom Hearts? And how was he still so injured if it's been that long?

He hears the door creak and slits open his eyes.

He sees the boy--the young man--rummaging in his cabinets. He looks much the same as he ever did, though, he notes, the boy ( _ Ienzo?) _ Is dressed in white, apprentice garb. The boy turns and Vexen quickly shuts his eyes again.

The boy clears his throat. "I'm not sure if you can hear me," he says, haltingly. His voice is much clearer, and certainly the same  _ timbre _ as Zexion's, but it carries something soft and alive in it Vexen's never heard. "Even… it's me, Ienzo. I'm sure the old names are a shock to hear."

Old?

"We're human again. We found out… once a person’s Heartless and Nobody have been vanquished, they reform in the place they were split, whole. But with our Nobody's injuries. Which is why you're so hurt. I… I've no idea what truly happened to you, but you're rather unstable. You and Dilan both. But I'm tending to you."

Human?

"If you could speak… open your eyes… twitch your fingers… the EEG machines are broken and I've no magic. I'm not even sure you're in there."

Human and powerless.

"I--" He exhales thickly, and Even (the name fits again like a glove) realizes he's upset. Twelve years of emotion battering him, he presumes, child to adult in one instant. The concern wells up in him, consumes him; the pain sears him, and he's no idea whether or not it's physical.

* * *

Again, Even wakes. He can feel motion returning to him bit by bit, and he can close his fingers into weak fists. The physical pain is less potent now, but instead one thing floods him, sickly and constant.

Guilt. Rivers of shame, streams of remorse. Guilt for the way he stopped caring about Ienzo, guilt for all he did to the people of their experiments, agony about Ansem. Darkness can only excuse so much. 

"Hi, Even."

Ienzo's back. Even can't bear to speak to him, though he's sure he can. He feigns unconsciousness, slitting his eyes open for glances of the young man. 

Ienzo looks pale, thin, the boyishness gone from his face, but the change makes him look unhealthy. His hands, when they feel Even's pulse, are clammy, oddly warm without gloves. Even can't remember the last time he's actually seen them. He's aching to look the boy in the eyes. He chances it, once, while Ienzo fusses with the bandages on his chest; gone are Zexion's steely, empty blue eyes. The humanity is back, soft, opening.

He can tell from a glance that Ienzo is in agony.

More horrifying yet, he can just see below Ienzo's collar when he leans over--thick bruises surround his windpipe, along with an angry red scar.

He'd had difficulty speaking.

Who dared do this to him?

Unconsciously, the boy pulls his collar up. Even forces his eyes shut. "I'm afraid there's a lot to catch you up on," Ienzo says in that same frighteningly gentle tone. He explains about Xehanort, about the time travel, about the vessels, the hearts the Nobodies are regrowing, the Organization's real goal, the Keyblade War from the old times. "I… I could really use your help, Even. I know I was so dreadfully cold to you. I… I am sorry. You were always kind to me when I was small. You were there when Master Ansem was not--" His voice catches. "Excuse me, I am feeling unwell."

Even hears him sit and chances another look. Ienzo sits with his head in his hands, rocking slowly, trying not to cry.

_ No, boy, cry. It's alright. _

"I… forgot how much this hurts," he says, with a dark laugh. "I am… so unsure of who I am… you'd doubtless find it fascinating. Can you imagine the psychological journals, Even? What happens when you try to give a twenty-year-old man an eight-year-old's heart?" A sob. "I'm so sorry. I… am trying to pull myself together. They need me. But I could never let them see me like this."

_ Cry it out, little one. _

For a time, Ienzo does just that, a sound that makes Even's heart (heart) ache, triggering another vein of remorse. 

_ I should have protected you. _

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Even shuts his eyes again. He feels Ienzo take his hand. "This is most unbecoming, isn't it? I bet you'd say I'm making a disgrace of myself. I have to… check on some things. Get some rest."

For a long while Even lies reeling. His physical pain lessens into a throb, while his heart seems to grow heavier and heavier with regret, the  _ I should'ves _ and  _ that's my faults.  _ Ienzo and Ansem take center stage, his abuse and dishonesty towards them pounding in time with his heart.

Ienzo comes and goes every few hours. Even is too much of a coward to talk to him.

"It's… bizarre," the boy says. "Your body… is healed. Why aren't you awake?" Even hears a click, sees bright light; he wills himself to flinch as little as possible as the boy forces his eyes open. "Even, if you're pretending, it's alright. We can work through this."

Don't move. Don't move.

"If only we had a replica for you… or one in general…"

Why do they need one?

"I miss my old friend. Come back soon."

He's gone again, and Even aches for him. The loneliness is nearly as potent as the guilt.

He can't lie like this forever. He needs to make a decision, needs to talk to the boy, needs to begin to figure out where to go from here--

"You're so full of shit."

It's the voice that startles him. Braig. Of course the man is back too. He opens his eyes. Unlike Ienzo, he's in the Organization coat still.

The true vessels.

The fool.

Even stares at him. "Is there a reason you're here?" His voice is hoarse from disuse, but clearer than he thought. "Perhaps to put an old man out of his misery?"

Braig smirks. "You wish," he says. "I've been watching these  _ tender _ scenes play out between the two of you. Who thought Ienzo would be such a softie? To think, he was  _ wanted _ ."

"By Xehanort, I presume?" He spits.

"Who else?" Xigbar shrugs. “He's good. So quickly. A heart and instantly everything changes. But there's no point getting rid of him. Xemnas is sentimental. Who would’ve thought?"

So callous. Even scowls.

"How's humanity feel?" he asks, with a smirk. "You  _ look  _ like death. Bet you feel like it too."

"Is there a reason you're here?" he repeats.

"Let's just say I have a proposition for you." He scowls a little. "We could use you.  _ He _ could use you."

A spark, an idea. "Why should I? What do you have to offer me?"

"We're closer than ever to Kingdom Hearts. If that doesn't intrigue you, I don't know what will." Xigbar comes closer, his footsteps almost silent. "Would you rather stay here? Crappy place, overworked and underappreciated… reminders of the past everywhere. Doesn't it just  _ hurt. _ "

He has to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. 

"If you can barely  _ look _ at Ienzo…" He clucks his tongue. "Why don't you think about it? I got the impression you never liked humanity anyway."

"Nor you," Even says softly. "This life just doesn't suit creatures like us."

Xigbar smirks and disappears into a dark corridor.

* * *

An idea comes to him slowly, fettered by guilt and headaches, and Ienzo's surprisingly loose tongue. Zexion was verbose but careful; Ienzo talks almost constantly, with little ability to stop himself.

"I'm… almost at my wit's end," the boy admits. "I'm inundated by what we did… I knew it, factually, but Zexion made my memories so cold. To feel it…" He rumples the curtain at the window. Even's glad he doesn't look at him; it means he can watch him. "How could we? I… I don't understand how we made the leap. Was it all the influence of Xehanort, or darkness? Why did they let me--do this?"

The weight of it might just choke him. They'd started this darkness, made it spread faster than it would've naturally; they upended a balance  _ just to see what would happen, _ with little care who or what was lost.

_ I took an oath. _

Even's a bloody hypocrite.

"I've been trying to help them," Ienzo says. "Sora, the restoration committee. They've been so terribly gracious about it. It truly is the least I can do. I've given them everything that I had, but you classified and encrypted so much. They have a right to know what really happened. Maybe if they know… their outside perspective can help us put a stop to it. I… wish you were here, Even. There's so much you never told me, things that could be of use. We… need a light. I don't understand a whit of your research, the small bits I've managed to decrypt. I wonder if this reformation process has given me some form of brain damage." A wry laugh. "These emotions do make me feel… much clumsier. Doesn't help I've been using you as a captive audience. But the others… truly cannot understand what it is I'm going through. I wish I were able to find it fascinating. Mostly it is hampering my ability to be of use."

He's silent a long time. When he speaks again, it's much more quietly, to himself. But Even's always had good hearing.

"If I can break the code… find Roxas… it could change everything. But the bodies… I need to know what Even knew." 

He hears Ienzo leave. Slowly, Even sits up. He feels weak from being so still for so long, but otherwise functional.

It all makes sense. Everything.

Yes. This would be how he can atone.

* * *

Xigbar returns soon after. Even's already sitting waiting for him. "I'll go," he says tiredly. "Seems to be the only way to further my research. I've no need for such... paltry emotions."

Xigbar's grin is killer.

* * *

The transformative process is just as painful the second time. Again the emptiness. He feels his mind wander, tempted again by darkness, by the ability to set bonds aside, but he reigns himself in each time. Thinking of Ienzo, his devastation, of his betrayal of Ansem's trust. He doesn't feel quite hurt anymore, but it weighs heavily on his conscience. No matter.

He can fix this. He  _ will _ fix this. No matter the cost.

He acquiesces to the New Organization’s demands, because they, too, need replicas. All the more excuse to perfect what he knows, to leave the most flawless in stock for Roxas and for Xion--though he can barely remember the latter. All he has of it-- _ her _ \--are his own reports. But if she were with Roxas long enough, she’ll be important. More convenient yet, Xemnas wants her, her easy mimicry of power.

There are too many familiar faces in this New Organization--Organization Rehash, Larxene calls it, and Vexen can’t help but agree. Xigbar, Saïx, Xemnas, the four neophytes.

Saïx is initially welcoming to him, and visits him again.

“To what do I owe the pleasure,” Vexen says evenly.

“I wonder if you feel it too,” the man says.

“Feel what, nostalgia? That’s all this Organization is.”

“You gave up your new life. That says a lot about you. Was this truly about research?”

Vexen turns, sorting the lies he could tell. 

Saïx knots his hands. “I gave mine up too.”

Vexen rolls his eyes, turning back to the new replicas, still forming in their chambers. “Yes. And?”

“I wish to… put an end to this nonsense. I sense you may feel the same.”

Vexen looks at him, his gold eyes (so like Vexen’s own, now--he tries not to think about it more than necessary) somewhat unreadable. Is this a trick? Are they trying to lure him out? 

Saïx leans in a little, drops his voice. “Let me help you,” he says softly. “Together, we can put an end to this Organization.”

Vexen feels the gut punch; caught. Yet, he reads earnestness in Saïx’s tone.

“You were once my teacher,” he continues. “I know what you’re capable of, and vice versa. I think--if we’re careful and clever--we can give the other side what they need.”

“How am I to know you won’t merely turn me in to Xehanort?”

“It matters not to him whether you fill out the ranks so long as he gets his bodies. Not since you and Demyx have been… ah… retired. He’s spread himself too thin, shattering his heart so. He wouldn’t notice a thing.”

Vexen inhales.

“I don’t want to be this way. I don’t want this to be my legacy. I’m sure you feel the same. We must end this suffering.”

“And how do you propose we do that?”

Saïx smiles. “Simple,” he says. “We do what he asks--and have a third party ferry a replica over to Radiant Garden. One whose movements are hardly ever noticed--because that’s the way he likes it.”

Vexen has an idea where this is going. “...Do I even want to know who you have in mind?”

The smile becomes even larger.

* * *

Demyx agrees to meet him in Radiant Garden. To be so close to Ienzo but unable to contact him is a sensation that sits oddly in his breast. Vexen explains it as simply as possible, but Demyx’s reaction is relatively theatrical.

“ _ What? _ ” He’s making much too much noise--Vexen clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Quiet, you dunce,” he hisses. 

Demyx swats his hand away. “But dude, why would you pick me?”

“I cannot let the chosen catch wind of this, understand?”

Immediately he gets defensive. “Oh, I see, it’s because I got benched.”

This is more frustrating than he could have hoped. His tone is much shorter, and louder, than he intended. “I got “benched” too.”

“What! Hey, quiet.” Now it’s Demyx’s turn to try to silence him. 

They both look around and see nothing, though admittedly this is meaningless. Vexen turns away, trying to think.

“Okay, man, look. Real talk? Backstabbing those guys would be stupid.”

Vexen rolls his eyes. As if this life is truly worth anything.

“If they find out, we’re yesterday’s toast. I mean, what’s in it for me?”

Vexen wonders if this angle is the right one. “Forgiveness.”

He seems genuinely surprised. “Huh? For what?”

“Men like us--in the pursuit of science, we sometimes make terrible mistakes. Lose sight of our mission to help people. But now I can help someone with my research. Now, I can atone.”

The boy’s been listening with interest, a calculating gleam in his eyes. But what he says next is only further disappointment. “I’m not a scientist.” He turns to leave, with a dismissive wave.

Something very like panic overtakes him--if the chosen heard of this--”Wait, wait, wait!” He grabs Demyx’s shoulder. The younger man shrugs him off with ease.

“C’mon, dude. I’m useless, I’m chicken, we’re not friends. I can count the amount of times we’ve hung out on one hand--less than one hand. I didn’t even know you in the old life!”

Enough of this. For a moment, Vexen wishes he had more patience with Demyx in the past, if only to make this encounter easier. “Fine, fine. But listen.” He pulls the boy close. “This is Saïx’s doing.”

Demyx’s eyes widen almost comically. “Huh? No way.”

Good. He has his interest. “It’s true. The whole thing was  _ his _ idea.”

“Huh… no fucking way…”

“He wants to atone too. But, he is one of the chosen, so his hands are tied. Hence my actions on his behalf, hence my need for you to act on  _ my _ behalf should all go awry.” He’s listening intently, Vexen notes. He could use Xehanort’s callousness towards Demyx to his advantage. “As you said, we are far from friends. No one would ever suspect you.” 

“So I’m not doing any fighting?”

“Correct. And more importantly, no benchwarming.” 

He smiles, and Vexen knows he’s won. “Yeah baby! Sign me up! Yes! Demyx time.”

Vexen sighs heavily. This certainly  _ would _ be interesting.

* * *

He’s more than a little alarmed when he catches wind that the “chosen” are seeking Ansem. Apparently, the man’s been spotted in Twilight Town. Xehanort’s Heartless intends on intercepting him. The man is too dangerous.

Vexen doesn’t hesitate. He’s abandoned Ansem once; never again.

He’s been mostly ambivalent to his status as a Nobody, but it does grant him a certain strength he didn’t have before. He’s able to stop Xehanort’s Heartless, to let Ansem escape. It comes to him, in a flash--the chosen hardly ever watch him, now that they’ve gotten their bodies--perhaps he could let Ansem know, to get the word back to Ienzo and the others. Perhaps he and Demyx could rendezvous, with the replica. Ienzo would need his help. Doubtless the reunion would be… dramatic, but he knows the boy is capable of completing the task at hand.

It’s time to shore up. Time to stop being a coward. Time to apologize.

But he is glad that, as a Nobody, he cannot feel much.

Ansem looks as though he’s aged much, much more than twelve years, despite the fact that he could not age in the realm of darkness; it seems as though there are many more years between them than merely five. He’s with some teenagers, those friends of Roxas, those assisting, albeit in a very tertiary manner. 

Even struggles to find the words, to assuage them all he means no ill will. “My dear Master,” he says slowly. “You are safe.” It’s a lame, tone-deaf beginning. Because they are anything but.

“Who’s there?” one of the teenagers yells.

In a shockingly even-keeled voice, Ansem asks, “Even, is that you?” A beat. His expression barely changes, all coldness and indifference--not that Vexen anticipated anything more. “So, those Nobodies were your doing.”

Vexen lets the Dusks appear. Then, very deliberately, he bows. “I have been waiting for this,” he admits. “Gave up a normal life in order to plant myself in the Organization. And when I heard Xehanort had gone looking for you, I realized it was my chance to find you as well.”  _ And keep you safe. _ “For you see, I, too, wish to atone.”

Ansem’s expression is closely guarded, but he very nearly smiles. “Is that so?” he asks slowly. 

“How could I not? To be human for those days again… made it all so real.”

The teenager who’d yelled gave him a once over. “You’re one of  _ them _ , aren’t you,” he spits. “Sora told us about you.”

Vexen ignores him. “I wish to help. I… realize you have no reason to trust me.” He chances taking a few steps forward. “I also realize any apology I offer could never possibly be enough.”

Ansem is silent for several moments. “Am I not at fault, as well?” he asks. 

“You…” He wants nothing more for these teenagers to disappear. “You still didn’t deserve the fate you received.”

His eyes are empty--so empty. He turns to the children. “Thank you for all your help, but this man will not harm me. Come, Even. Apparently we have much to discuss.”

Vexen wills the Dusks to disappear. They walk for a long time in silence, the two of them, in this perpetual sort of twilight.

“We cannot return to the mansion. It’s being watched for now,” Ansem says. “Keep your voice low.”

“We seek to take down the new Organization,” he says. It’s beyond odd to be this close to him.

“We?”

“Myself. The man you knew as Isa.”

Ansem smirks. “And how do you propose to do this?”

“In these intervening years… I did perfect the replica program. More or less.” He doesn’t feel pride any longer. “We have a… third party willing to deliver one directly to Radiant Garden, for Roxas’s heart. To Ienzo.”

Ansem’s calm exterior slips, for just a moment. “How… is my boy?”

“I did not see him for very long,” Vexen says. “He is… well. Whole again.”

“You hesitate.”

“Of course I do.” He takes a breath. “He’s received his humanity after years of numbness. The adjustment… I fear it’s not been easy. But I have faith. His brilliance has only grown with him.” He sighs. “With this replica, and our ally, I wish that you, Master, will go to him.” Ansem says nothing; his face is stony. “I realize the feelings you have are complicated. But he needs someone to help him, and I must keep my cover.”

“...Yes. Quite.” He nods. “However could I face that poor boy?”

“With the warmth and grace you’ve always had,” Vexen says softly. “Once this is all over… humbly, I would like to return as well.” If he survives the process. “That is, if you’ll have me. I wish to do nothing more than to ease the pain I’ve caused. I should like to regain your trust.”

Ansem nods once. “This is a good start.”

* * *

It pains him, to not be present for all this, but his own feelings and notions are irrelevant. He dresses the replica in a coat to protect it, wraps it up further in a blue blanket--almost like an infant.

Demyx arrives--on time, for the first instance that Vexen’s ever witnessed. “So, here we go, right?” He’s smiling. 

“...Quite.” He touches Demyx’s shoulder. “I must… thank you for doing this.”

He shrugs. “I’ve been thinking about it. It’s not right for Xehanort to use us for his own stuff, you know? It kinda bites.”

Vexen chuckles. “Indeed. I’m afraid I must ask one more thing of you.”

He rolls his eyes, but his tone is affable when he says. “For pete’s sake, what now?”

“You and I must lie low, once this is through. We must wait and hope for Xehanort’s defeat.”

Demyx glances down at the replica, in its swaddling. “...And then what?”

“Whatever you like, I suppose.”

He bites his lip. “Yeah… that might be nice.” He hefts the replica over one shoulder. “This thing is hollow, huh?”

“Not for long. You know where to go?”

“Yeah, get the old man. I hear you.”

Vexen sighs. “Good luck, Demyx.”

For just a moment, before he disappears into darkness, Demyx smiles, and it’s the most genuine expression Vexen’s ever seen him wear. “You, too.”

* * *

He can’t be certain that Ienzo receives the replica, can’t chance checking. He goes to an anonymous world, hides in the wilderness. He waits, and to a degree he prays. Weeks pass. He wonders if he should chance contact, should see how things have gone--between Ienzo and Ansem, and along with Dilan and Aeleus, there shouldn’t be any issues with the procedure.

Then he feels an ache in his heart--the heart he doesn’t quite have. The piece of Xehanort. Without hesitating, he returns to Radiant Garden, knowing that he will not have the ability to travel for long.

Because it’s withering, and dying; he can feel the sickly pain, the feverishness, inexplicable agony in his whole body. It must’ve worked. They must’ve beat Xehanort. 

It’s all over. At last.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vexen returns to Radiant Garden and becomes Even again, but relationships at the castle remain tense and awkward. A new arrival further mixes things up.

He finds the boy outside, his eyes turned skyward. He looks exhausted; Vexen’s able to get uncomfortably close before Ienzo notices his presence. The boy’s head snaps down.

They hold eye contact for a very long time.

“Even,” he gasps.

He smiles. Sweat is crawling all along his body, pain in his chest; but he tries to remain composed. “Oh, little one. It is good to see you.”

“This was your doing," he says. “You… you could’ve told me, you know.” A wry smile.

“I’m a coward. What else can I say? The thought of speaking to you again was more than I could bear. This was the only way I could begin to atone.”

Vexen can see the weight of exhaustion within him. He’s positive the poor boy hasn’t rested a whit more than was necessary to remain alive. “I suppose you know you were successful,” he says softly. “Xehanort is dead. It’s over.”

Vexen’s feeling faint now. “Is that so,” he says.

“Even?” Ienzo asks. “Are you alright?”

He collapses before he can say anything more.

* * *

When he wakes, he’s in his own bed in his old quarters, not the med bay. His fever has broken, leaving him covered in a thin, unpleasant film of sweat. His body feels odd to him, achy. And while he feels a faint throb of remorse, it’s not nearly as strong as after the first reformation. He forces himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his head.

All of a sudden he feels old; his joints ache in a disorienting way. He knows he’s nearing fifty (or, depending on just how long he’s been hiding, has passed it), but for the first time it’s a tangible number.

Even forces himself to his feet and lurches over to the mirror over the dresser. He’s breathing hard. He looks terrible--flushed, sweaty, his hair disgustingly greasy--but this doesn’t matter.

His eyes are green, not gold. The piece of Xehanort’s heart inside of him has perished. He knows this almost instinctively. 

It truly is over.

Perhaps for this reason, he sinks to his knees and sobs.

* * *

Just because Xehanort is dead and Even is human again, that doesn’t mean there’s time for leisure. He’s weak and underweight from his weeks of hiding, but he tries not to spend undue time in bed unless it’s unavoidable. He stumbles through interpersonal contact--reunions, conversations--in a numb haze.

The castle is exactly the same, but it’s gone through hell. Everything is either filthy, or broken, or misplaced, or some combination therein. His own human clothing, when he roots through the drawers, has been eaten by moths and mice alike. And seeing that Ienzo has co-opted his lab coats for himself--in the moment he needed them far more--he spends more time in those early days sewing than anything. It feels good to make something with his hands.

His lab is desolate, desecrated, fragile glass doors broken, supplies stolen, missing, or compromised. He spends days cleaning and reorganizing. It doesn't seem to do much good.

They've been left another replica by one of the true vessels. It was its user's desire that it go to Naminé. With Kairi presumed dead, it was a logical fallacy to figure out how to seek her heart; he and Ienzo spend hours in circular discussion, but neither of them can come up with anything good. The best they can do is prepare the replica for implantation, and wait. Ansem, quietly, is nearby, as he seeks to apologize to the girl. Apparently he wasn't the only one who suffered a great deal of moral degradation. This is actually a comfort to Even, because as the days pass, his remorse again goes heavier. He lacks composure; often he gives in to fallacies of weakness, breaking down almost distantly when he has moments to himself. 

It doesn't take long for Naminé to arrive. It occurs to Even that not everything about the heart is possible to understand. When she wakes, the three of them are there. It will always give him a thrill, to see the replica go from a genderless, colorless sort of mannequin to a realized human being. 

She sits up. Slowly. She seems a bit dizzy. Ienzo tries to assuage her, but it's Ansem who speaks first. "My dear girl," he says. "I am truly sorry for what we've all put you through. I realize we have not made your existence easy; that, in fact, I have made it something of a hell. I hope that, with this new chance, you can find peace. And if there's anything--any small thing--we can do to assist you, let me know at once."

Naminé seems to struggle with her words. Even takes her vitals, notes with a distant pleasure how stable they are; she's taken to this body like glue, exactly as easy as Roxas and Xion did theirs. "Where's Roxas?" She asks.

"At Destiny Islands, waiting for you," Ienzo says gently. "Riku has arrived to bring you there, should you desire it." 

Her blue eyes gleam. "Yes. That's what I want." She looks slowly at each of them, but it's Ienzo's eyes she seeks (she's had the smallest amount of trauma with him) when she asks, "Kairi… where is she?"

"We're not sure," Ienzo says. "Sora is seeking her… I'm sure he will find her, if he's determined enough."

Even has known Ienzo for years. He knows when he is lying. Zexion was better at it. Despite Ienzo's trepidation, Naminé nods. "Then I should wait for her," she says. "I can just… go?" 

"Of course," Ienzo says gently. "I can escort you, if you like."

She shakes her head. "That's okay," she says. "Thanks."

"It's the least we can do." Ienzo gives her a gummiphone, a brief tutorial on how to use it. "So you can be in contact with your friends."

"My friends." She smiles. "He's just outside?"

"Yes. He'll be waiting."

They all watch her go. There are a few moments of awkward silence. Ansem faces Ienzo. "You've done well, my boy," he says gently, and though Ienzo nods, Even can see his eyes on the floor. "You should get some rest. You look exhausted."

"There's still so much to be done," Ienzo says. "The computer must be tidied up--I'm afraid the committee and Sark have--"

Even touches his shoulder, feeling the boy flinch just the slightest at the unanticipated touch. "You've worked so hard. I know human exhaustion is still unfamiliar to you, but your body is more fallible than a Nobody's. You need rest, fluid, and dare I say it, a few square meals." He tries to smile. "Please sleep, Ienzo. You are no longer so alone."

Even wonders if he's imagining it, or if Ienzo's eyes are watering. "I… will try," he says softly. "Please don't hesitate to wake me if you need anything."

"I'd much rather see you healthy," Ansem says. "Go, my boy. It's alright."

They watch him go. And then it's the two of them.

"Well," Even says. "I do have some affairs to attend to. I should like to write a report about Naminé's implantation."

"...Certainly."

Even takes a few steps, then hears Ansem's voice:

"Even?"

"Yes, Master?"

"How are you faring?"

He meets Ansem's rusty eyes. There's still something missing from them. "Healthy enough," he says. "Realizing I am old, as well as a fool. I've no idea where to begin unraveling what I've done."

"You're not the only one," Ansem says. He shakes his head. 

"What is it _you've_ done?" Even asks, incredulous.

Ansem chuckles darkly. "More than sit limply in the realm of darkness, I'm afraid."

"...I see." His heart is beating hard--anxiety, and repulsion. "If it's… all the same, I should like to take my leave."

"Of course. You needn't my permission anymore."

He scoffs a little. "I wasn't asking for it."

* * *

Even doesn't feel quite right; he doesn't feel at home here, and neither, he suspects, do the others. For the most part, they avoid one another aside from the lightest and most superficial greetings. Even knows he needs to confront them, for any number of reasons--their mistreatment of the boy Ienzo, the atrocities they committed in the Organization, the fact that they threw Ansem into the darkness--but he does not feel able. He doesn't feel able to do much at all, actually.

He can feel the basement in his periphery, its suffering, his own follies like a magnet--

Even finds it difficult to consistently keep down foods, to sleep. He knows it is likely stress, and he sees the numbers when he draws his own blood. But how to alleviate any of this pain? How to begin? How to start to atone?

With the weight of his own burgeoning humanity, he feels nearly incapacitated. He tries to write, to create reports detailing all that happened--if so to organize his own thoughts--but often he finds himself staring into space. For the first time he despises his awareness, his intelligence, because Even is acutely aware he is becoming depressed.

Nobodies’ minds largely reject mental illness, mostly to ensure survival of the body. But as a human, it’s all coming back, the repercussions. And if the mental health situation was bad for Radiant Garden before, now it’s completely desolate.

Worsened by facts of the Fall.

Ienzo brings him tidings of it, quietly--the young man went to visit with the restoration committee, to see if there was any more news worth passing on. He’d left his lab coat at the castle. Without apprentice or Organization garb, the boy looks downright strange in civilian clothing. His teal eyes are empty, and drawn from exhaustion. “Even,” he says in an odd voice. “Have you several moments?”

“...Of course. Ienzo? Are you alright? You look ill.”

“Leon was… catching me up on town affairs,” he says slowly. “I knew this world fell, and was restored, but to hear the stories of it…” He swallows thickly and won’t make eye contact. Even gestures for him to sit on one of the stools in the lab; he does, heavily. “He… was kind enough to insist that it was not our fault. But we planted the seeds.  _ Even. _ ”

“...I know.”

Slowly, Ienzo nods.

“I’m sure what you feel must be overwhelming,” Even says softly. “You’re no longer used to emotion, how it physically impacts the body. But don’t let it weigh so heavily, Ienzo. You were a child--mentally ill and manipulated. This has nothing to do with you.”

“I should have known better. And that doesn’t begin to touch what I did after.”

He doesn’t know what to say, where to even begin. “Child--”

He swallows, blinking quickly. “I… I have something I must attend to.”

Even should’ve followed him, tried harder--but he can’t.

* * *

In strange moments, he finds himself thinking of Demyx. Not quite with fondness, or even concern, but curiosity and a sort of worry. If Xehanort’s heart had been purged from Even, it should have been purged from the boy as well--meaning he’s lost his means to travel. Yet, he worries. What if a piece of Xehanort remains? The others worry about it too, to a smaller degree; they talk about it in hushed voices. Easier to discuss this than the emotional rot.

It turns out he doesn’t have to worry long.

In a moment ripped clean from the past, Dilan approaches him in his quarters. “Have you a moment?”

“That depends.”

“There’s something I think you’ll want to see.”

Dilan brings him not to the med bay, but rather to one of the empty apprentice rooms--one of the ones that, had they been graduated, would likely have belonged to Isa or Lea. Even sees the black heap on the bed. “We found him about half an hour ago,” Dilan says. “He was asking for you.”

Even approaches Demyx slowly. He’s unconscious, shuddering--no doubt in the throes of a fever like Even was.

“Why has it taken so long?” Dilan asks.

“Dilan, I know it’s been a while since we’ve been researchers, but I trust you did not forget about relativity.” If Demyx has been shuffling from world to world--each with its own different time signature--it makes sense that, to him at least, this is only happening now. To his body, Xehanort has only just been defeated. “I know what this is. The part of Xehanort’s heart that’s been instilled in him is dying.” He rolls up the boy’s sleeve, begins taking his vitals, wondering all the while if his were anything like this. Racing heart, fever, low blood pressure. “Would you do me a favor and get the boy some blankets?”

“Will he--” Dilan hesitates, and his lip curls. “What will become of him?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“But this means he is--”

“Unable to leave Radiant Garden, yes.” Even looks at him. “Please. Sooner rather than later. He is very unwell.” As gently as he can, he eases off Demyx’s boots, his ragged and muddy coat. No doubt as soon as the pain started, the boy sought him for help--he knew no one else to turn to. He settles the boy onto his side, a precaution in case he should vomit, and covers him.

Dilan watches this with a sort of morbid fascination. “He really did help you?” he asks, incredulous. “He really… turned against the new Organization?”

“In his own way. I’ve no idea why--but I’m grateful.”

“I should tell the others.” He shakes his head. “Do you remember the boy’s name, from the old life?”

Even frowns. “You know, I don’t,” he says. “I’m afraid I never paid much attention to the neophytes.”

“Very well. I’m sure he’ll tell us when he wakes.” With a scowl, Dilan leaves.

Even brushes a strand of hair out of his own eyes and looks back towards the boy. “You couldn’t bear to let me have a moment of peace, could you?”

Almost as if in response, Demyx shudders more intensely and curls in on himself.

Even sighs. “Very well. My work is cut out for me, I see.” He takes a pen light out of his pocket, pulls the boy’s eyelid back. Unpleasant, yes, but he has to know. The boy doesn’t react hardly at all. Even notes with relief that the small sliver of iris he can see is Demyx’s natural teal. “Get some rest,” he murmurs. “Goodness knows you’ll need it.”

It isn’t long before the cavalry comes. Ienzo and Ansem, in tandem, like nothing’s changed. Ienzo’s expression is stricken; morbidly fascinated. “...He’s not a vessel?” 

"I don't believe so. I've already checked his eyes. Not gold. Look." He demonstrates for them. 

He hesitates. “Do you think he’s trustworthy?”

"I do not believe he'd cause any harm to us," Even says. "He was rather helpful with the replicas."  
  
"The boy holds no ill will. We did not speak much, admittedly, but he seemed all too happy to get a move in edgewise," Ansem says. "I believe he was merely swayed. And we can sway him back to us, if need be."  
  
"I'll monitor him, but he should be up and about before long." Even shakes his head. "Nasty business. At least it's all over now." He takes the coat. "I'll put this filthy thing in the wash with mine. Best to hold onto. Just in case." If he’s learned anything, it’s that nothing is impossible.

Ansem follows him out the door, but Ienzo remains, an odd, unreadable look on his face. “...This is what you went through?” he asks softly.

Even looks over his shoulder. “Oh, yes,” he says. “Much the same. It’s just us that went through it this way. He’ll be human before long.”

Ansem nods. “I suppose you and he only have fragments of a heart, rather than a whole one, like the others.”

“...I presume.”

“What does that… feel like?”

Even stares at him. “I’m still puzzling that one out, I’m afraid.”

Ansem nods slowly. Like the rest of them, the clothing he’s bought is secondhand; gone were the days of pristine, professional garb based on their status. Back to patching, darning, mending. He looks more like someone’s grizzled grandfather than a former king.

Even’s sure he himself doesn’t look much better. “I should like to draft a report about this,” he says. “Unless there’s something else you need.”

“We should figure out what to do with the young man,” Ansem says.

Even shrugs. “Demyx is an adult. As… eccentric as he is, he’s capable of deciding his own fate. Nor is he an amnesiac. Once he is well, he can leave.”

Ansem sighs. “Should he have nowhere else to go?”

Even scowls. “You and your strays,” he spits. “All that’s done is get us in trouble.”

The little readability in Ansem’s expression is quickly replaced by indifference. “You’re a different man, Even.”

“Well, what did you expect of me? It’s been twelve years, multiple transfigurations of the self. I’m no longer so amenable, and for that I apologize.” He feels his nostrils flare.

Ansem smiles darkly. “No, you’ve hardened.”

“I would not have survived the alternative.”

The words fall, heavily. Ansem crosses his arms. “...Quite. Well, I’ve my own work to do.” 

Even launders both cloaks, revulsion making his skin prickle. Demyx, when he checks, is still unconscious, though his fever has broken. He’ll wake soon. He’ll likely have many annoying questions. Perhaps Ienzo can field that for him--the boy seems to have more patience now that he’s human.

Even, on the other hand, has less.

* * *

Demyx’s presence does shift things. To Even’s annoyance, the boy truly  _ doesn’t _ have anywhere else to go. It’s as though he’s puncturing a hole in their insular world, forcing them to confront things they wouldn’t have otherwise. He’s quieter, less effervescent than he used to be. For the most part, he seems unsure of what to do with himself. This is perhaps the sole thing, aside from their reformation, he and Even have in common. 

He examines the young man one last time. Aside from being too thin, he’s otherwise healthy. “Now, tell me, what was the process like for you? I’m still trying to understand it. We were the last two Nobodies whose reformation didn’t necessitate some sort of murder-suicide. It goes against almost everything we’ve learned so far.”

Demyx hesitates, flinching a little. “Painful,” he admits in a low voice.

When he says no more, Even scowls. “I seem to recall a time when I could not get you to shut up. Now, when there’s actually matters of interest, suddenly you become as taciturn as Aeleus.”

Demyx drops his eyes. Even feels his frustration building. Truly, along with anger and guilt, this is all he really feels. 

“I’m trying to understand so that I can help you,” Even says slowly.

The boy takes a moment to gather himself. Gone is Demyx’s quick, though nonsensical, tongue. Even wonders if there’s some deeper change, if his sense of self has shifted like Ienzo’s. Of course it would impact the younger members all the harder. Even himself dimly remembers those days (a lot longer ago than he would like to admit), when the struggle to find oneself was a constant. “It just started hurting at one point,” he says.

Even jots that down. “Your heart?”

“Yes. Well, I guess not technically. And then the pain just got worse, and I felt like I was dying, and then I tried to open a corridor to find you, but it took a few tries. I passed out and then when I woke up it was gone.” 

That all tracks with Even’s own process. “Yes. Yes, my experience was similar. Did you experience weakness, feverishness, and delirium as well?”  
  
He shrugs. “Well I did have dreams--but they’ve stopped.”

Dreams? All Even can recall is darkness. “What kind of dreams?” he prompts, the words nearly coming of their own accord. The curiosity, the desire to know more.

“I… I don’t know. This place I don’t quite remember. Something about Keyblades.”  
  
“...Fascinating,” Even mumbles. “I wonder if you were seeing some of Xehanort’s memories.”  
  
“...Maybe,” Demyx says, flinching a little.

“But if that fragment had bound to you so tightly, I’m surprised it let go as easily as it did. Perhaps Xehanort willed it when he passed.” If only he had other vessels to interview--

Then again, what kind of fool wants that?

Even looks into his eyes again. Still teal. No visible indication of anything remaining. Then again… if Demyx is dreaming… perhaps it might be good that he’s still here. “I have a favor to ask of you.” He hands the boy a notebook. “Keep track of your dreams to see if anything like that happens again. I will as well. Maybe we can divine some meaning from them.”

He sighs. “Homework?”

This is so typical. Of course he wouldn’t have changed as much as Ienzo. 

“This is for the advancement of important scientific research!” Even snaps. “Don’t you see what we can learn?” He shut his eyes tightly, a headache beginning to throb. “Why did it have to be you?”

The boy glares at him. “Good question. I’m gonna go now.”

For several moments Even sits, his head reeling. There’s no need to be nasty to the boy, but yet it rose from him almost involuntarily. More like Vexen than Even. Though much too emotionally soft to be Vexen. He’s crammed somewhere between the two.

_ I’m too old to be dealing with this. _

Before long, though, Demyx is back, this time with Aeleus. Something’s shifted. His eyes are wide, watery, and his breathing sounds wheezy, labored--

_ A sound of nightmares and hours spent consoling Ienzo-- _

“My powers,” he says quickly. “Where are they?”

Of course nobody else told him. He guides the trembling boy over to a chair. “It’s our biology,” he explains. “Now that we’re human, we’ve no need for our weapons, our powers.”

“...Our powers are gone?” he asks, his eyes dull.

“In all probability--yes. It’s unusual for humans to have abilities as specific and powerful as we did.” Nobody power is tied to the will, an expression of the self in the absence of a heart--though doubtless Demyx won’t understand this explanation. 

“Can I get it back?”  
  
“I never thought you cared about fighting.”  
  
“This isn’t about fighting,” he says desperately. “Without my sitar, I--”  
  
Even’s lip curls. “Oh. That. I’m not certain what I could do for you, Demyx.”

He says nothing, but his eyes are wide, horrified. But really what can Even do? Give the boy false hope? What would that achieve?

“You could have a look in the marketplace. You might find something there that might help you make noise. Now if that is all you’re concerned about, I have work I need to tend to.”

With a quick, pained breath, Demyx leaves. For a moment, Even sits with his head over his notes, trying to conclude. Slowly, like honey, he feels something seeping into him.

There was absolutely no reason to be so short with Demyx. Not when the boy  _ has _ assisted him.

He groans a little and stands, pacing slowly. After a moment, he holds his palm out, calling gently towards his shield. Sure enough, he feels nothing. It’s gone back to sleep inside of him, no longer needed.

It will only be prudent, to follow up with the others. For his reports.

Dilan and Aeleus both answer in the negative when he asks. And while he knows what Ienzo will say--well, it never hurts to be thorough.

The young man is camped at the computer, where he’s more or less lived these past few days, combing through the disaster that is now their archives. The committee saw fit to completely overtake the computer, and whatever codes it’s been fed to try and decrypt things has it working poorly. Ienzo was never particularly interested in computer science; what does the boy need to know? 

“Have you a moment?” he asks.

Ienzo does not even look up, still pulling things this way and that. “Of course. Whatever is the matter?”

"You no longer have any of your Nobody abilities, correct?"

He looks up, squinting. “That is correct. Why is it you ask? You haven't either, have you?"  
  
"I have tried, and I cannot," Even says. "I wanted to make sure. He found out."  
  
"Who? Demyx?"  
  
Even nods. "I wonder if my tone might have been too sharp. He did look rather distressed. But what is it I'm to do? I'm not a miracle worker. And if I'm being honest, I'm quite content with how silent things are around here."  
  
"Strictly speaking, there is nothing we can do. Aside from have patience. Oh, that reminds me. I was supposed to have dropped off those clothes. My memory has not been great lately."  
  
"You've had a lot on your mind," Even says gently. "I suspect we all have. I'll be glad to not see another one of those infernal cloaks. So drab. So… cult-like."

Ienzo looks back at the screen. "Master Ansem said essentially the same thing. I suppose I should take care of it now." His expression is grim, unhappy. Even’s glad that he’s not the only one feeling negatively about this.  
  
"I shall walk with you."  
  
The decay has only seemed to grow more noticeable. Water damage and erosion abounds, and everything is full of filth. The heavy carpets, once beautifully embroidered, are threadbare. For some reason Even feels the need to chat, to engage. The boy looks so wilted. "It's a shame. Things here were once so beautiful. If the committee were not so busy we could use their assistance. This place is a shell of what it once was."  
  
“You have to admit it feels rather significant.”  
  
Ienzo and his metaphors. The boy never did give up reading. "Too on the nose, for my tastes.” He shakes his head. "We're not shells of who we once were. We've changed and adapted. You most of all. I miss being so pliable."  
  
But Ienzo does not receive this as a compliment. “So I’ve heard,” he says darkly. “I assure you it is not as easy as it looks.”  
  
He wishes Ienzo would tell him about it. “My apologies.”  
  
Ienzo hesitates. “If only times were simpler," he says. "I feel as if I've no time to look after myself--what with Sora's disappearance and Demyx's arrival."  
  
"Sora's disappeared?" He knew of Kairi’s death--but he figured the fool would be back by now.  
  
Ienzo smiles tiredly, and explains in a few clipped sentences that Sora sought to find her heart. Despite the gummiphone, everyone has lost track of him.  
  
Even blinks. “How curious. I wonder if there’s any of his data somewhere?”  
  
"Sora's? I do not know. I'm not sure how his friends would feel if he were a replica, though."  
  
Even sighs. "I've tried to recreate Sora's heart, and we know what happened with that," he says. "As proud as I am of Xion's sentience and personhood, unfortunately his heart is so special that it seems to be a moot option. Best not to give them hope."  
  
It’s the hesitation that tells him everything he needs to know.  
  
"I thought I'd taught you better," Even says.  
  
"You should have heard Riku's voice."  
  
"I'm surprised you feel so strongly about him, not when you have such poor memories of him." Riku was nothing but a thorn in their side at Castle Oblivion--defying the odds, resisting all attempts at control.  
  
But Ienzo’s reaction is completely inexplicable--he flushes and raises his voice. "That was your replica, might I remind you," Ienzo snaps.  
  
Even raises an eyebrow. "The Riku replica? What about it?"  
  
He stops cold. “Never mind.”  
  
There’s something going on here. “Boy, tell me,” he says sharply.   
  
Ienzo’s tensed; his hands hover near his throat (in a flash, Even remembers the bruises, the scars).  
  
“Ienzo?” Even prompts.  
  
The boy gasps, a pained sound; fear floods his eyes.   
  
“Oh, Ienzo.” 

"If you must know," Ienzo forces out between breaths, "Axel had the Riku replica kill Zexion."  
  
"He did?" Even laughs, despite himself. "Axel killed Vexen." And yet somehow the bastard became a guardian of light. Such brutality. But he has no time to think about such things; Ienzo’s distress is clearly the priority. “How is it you’re feeling?”  
  
His voice brings back a gut-punch of memory. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand what it is I’m feeling.”  
  
He tries to soften. “Intense, paralyzing panic?” he offers.  
  
“Yes--perhaps--” He’s breathing like it hurts.  
  
"You should sit down and focus on modulating your breathing," Even says. He helps the boy down to the floor. Aside from his size, it’s almost exactly like all those times before. "It's alright. This is a normal reaction to recalling something traumatic-"  
  
"Believe me, I know," Ienzo hisses. "I am _perfectly_ aware of what this is." His eyes belie the opposite.  
  
"Count to ten," Even says. "Deep, steady breaths."  
  
Even sees him struggle to bring himself back under control. The wild, barely-contained agony he saw when he first reformed is back, flooding Ienzo’s every breath. He feels his heart begin to ache, dully. “Why is it you do not feel that way?” Ienzo asks.  
  
"Perhaps my heart is not quite as developed as yours," Even says. "Perhaps it is that I have not processed it all, yet." Yes, that’s it. No wonder he feels so scrambled.  
  
"I do not wish to speak of it at the moment," Ienzo says thickly. He pulls away from Even’s touch. "I must… I must go."   
  
By the time he can find the courage to say it, the boy’s long gone.  
  
“...Wait… Let me help you…”  
  
Perhaps it’s because of Ienzo’s panic attack, but Even finds himself remembering that moment with utter clarity. Begging for mercy, for his life. Being struck, twice, pinned down like one of his own experiments. Then a fire within, so bright and hot and not at all instant.  
  
Again, he cannot keep down his dinner. This will not do.  
  
Even tries to rest, because he can feel his body crying out for it--but despite what he told the boy, he can’t respect his own weakness. He dresses, flinching as his fingers brush the scars (he still has not seen himself fully in a mirror, and he surely doesn’t plan on it any time soon), and begins walking. He has any amount of things to do, but he cannot bring himself to go to the labs. So he walks, noting the autumn chill. He’s forgotten how frigid Radiant Garden can be in the fall and winter; normally he would not mind, but he no longer has Vexen’s immunity to the cold.  
  
“Even? Is that you?”  
  
He pauses; but it’s only Aeleus. “On a round?”  
  
The man shrugs. He’s wearing no uniform, carrying an old flashlight. “I… was feeling restless. Were you as well?”  
  
“...Quite.”  
  
“Would you mind if I… joined you?”  
  
Even immediately tries to reject the invitation, but finds himself saying instead, “Not at all.”  
  
So they walk, for a long time in pure silence. It doesn’t feel awkward, but it’s not comfortable, either.  
  
“You’re… alright?” Aeleus asks slowly.  
  
Even blinks. “I…” He begins.  
  
“I know,” Aeleus says.   
  
Their footsteps seem almost deafening in the darkness. The night is so calm, Even notes; with darkness withering, it’s cool as silk. “Tell me something, Aeleus.”  
  
He chuckles. “That depends.”  
  
“You… do you also feel as though you are in between?”  
  
He mulls it over. The flashlight casts strange shadows over his features. “Yes and no,” he says at last.  
  
This makes Even laugh as well.  
  
“I feel as if… I’m meant to be here,” Aeleus says. “In this place, at this time. I will do what is needed, what is asked of me, humbly. And be pleased my fate is not worse.”  
  
“...That so,” Even says softly.  
  
“I wish to… find my own ways of atoning,” Aeleus says. “Mostly… I would like to be here for Master Ansem, for Ienzo.”  
  
“...Have you spoken to him? Ansem.”  
  
“Only for a few moments,” he says. “I cannot find the right words to apologize.”  
  
The night seems suffocatingly silent. “You were there, that night?”  
  
“I… yes.” He looks at his hand, clenches it into a fist. “It was as though something came over me… enabling all the most evil pieces of myself. To give that final shove… was easier than I want to admit. But it’s his eyes I remember most.”  
  
Even cannot catch his breath.  
  
“It wasn’t betrayal, not like you think. He… he looked at me, and I could tell he knew, knew what we'd done. He said…” Aeleus exhales heavily.  
  
Even touches his shoulder, feels the tension there. “You don’t have to tell me.”  
  
““I thought you were stronger than this.””  
  
“That’s what he said?”  
  
“...Yes.”  
  
Even gives Aeleus space, silence. He admits slowly, “I was going to run.”  
  
“With Ienzo?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He digests this. “I wonder what would have happened.”

* * *

There’s no point in thinking about what _might have happened._ Because it didn’t. Even isn’t naive enough to believe fate steered him on this path; he’s done this all to himself, to the boy, and to the others as well. The guilt cuts him like a knife.  
  
Where to begin?  
  
The question cycles in his mind over and over again. As he composes his reports, sitting there, alone, like nothing has changed and yet everything has changed.  
  
Where has the time gone?  
  
They’ve all suffered and aged, but have they grown at all, the way he told Ienzo they have? Himself, especially?  
  
How can he begin to erase his sins?  
  
Can he plan while his heart feels like it’s rotting?


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demyx asks Even to help him determine whether or not he's actually from the past. The memories and mistakes of the past continue to simmer.

Ienzo, the increasingly gentle soul, invites them all to dinner. Even can’t pretend to understand the ulterior motives. Does he truly want to see them all in one space? Them, that betrayed him? Perhaps he has not even processed this betrayal. And it _is_ awkward; he tries to shore up for the boy’s sake. He notes that Demyx looks as uncomfortable as Even feels, saying little, keeping his eyes mostly on his plate. In this light he looks washed out, bony, bruise-colored circles under his eyes. Even finds this somewhat fascinating; in the past, Demyx always sought to ingratiate himself where he wasn’t wanted. Now, offer duly extended, he seems like he would prefer to crawl out of his skin. Even knows the feeling.  
  
Ienzo asks his for his advice about all the corrupted data; at least they have this much they can talk about painlessly. Even bides his time until it is polite to excuse himself. Demyx, after uncharacteristically clearing the dishes, disappears, pale; Ienzo says the young man is feeling unwell and needs to rest. Even notices the purple ascot missing from his throat; was it feeling too tight against the scars?  
  
“I thought he was looking a little peaked myself,” Even says. “He was in hiding an awful long time. It was difficult enough for me to cope when I hid too. I can only imagine.”   
  
“Well, your sacrifices are not in vain,” Ansem says. “Here’s to a full recovery.”  
  
Cheeky bastard.  
  
The next morning, after a mostly sleepless night, he pores over pages of old notes from the time before, trying to humanistically calculate the damage he’s done. If he has the scope of it, he can devise ways to bring himself closer to zero.  
  
(Will it truly help? Any of it?)  
  
In all this, there’s a gentle knock. “What do you want?” Even asks dully. He can feel his assailant, but they’re silent. Tiredly, he turns.  
  
There’s Demyx, a bandage wrapped tightly around his left palm. It takes Even a moment too long to realize that it’s an ascot, namely, one of Ienzo’s, the one that had gone missing.  
  
  
“What did you do to yourself now?”  
“Last night, at the dinner party. Cut myself when I was doing dishes.”  
  
Very well. At least this could be dealt with quickly. He takes the young man’s hand--fingertips firm with calluses, no doubt from his years of musicianship--and unwraps the cloth. The wound is angry, red, but seems otherwise a clean cut. “Right across your lifeline. Some cultures would consider that unlucky.”   
  
Demyx reaches for the cloth. Why hadn’t the boy mentioned Demyx was hurt? “This thing’s filthy. I might not have any magic, but I can at least provide adequate care.” He cleans and bandages the wound. He turns back to the report. “Well, if that’s all you came for, would you do me a favor and leave me be? I’m in the middle of something important.”   
  
Demyx huffs a little. “That’s not why I came. Remember how you told me to keep track of my dreams?”  
  
“My memory is very good.”  
  
“They weren’t dreams at all. They were memories. But I don’t think they were his.” He exhales. “They were mine.”  
  
And how is this impressive? “Oh. Is that all?”  
  
He wrinkles his nose, as though deciding something.  
  
And then drops a bombshell.  
  
“Xemnas said I… have a Keyblade legacy. That it sleeps in me. That we weren’t… from this time.”  
  
We?  
  
_The four neophytes?_ No wonder they had arrived in such quick succession--not when it had taken six _years_ just to find Demyx. The bastard must’ve been fussing about with time travel the whole time. The thought of it is giving him an odd sort of vertigo. “Are you… quite sure?”

He flushes. “Of course I’m sure!” Or as sure as Demyx can be.

Even feels like he can’t breathe. He tries to recall what he’s read about the Keyblade War, the X-blade, and their fairy tales. “That was… from the time of fairy tales. Many, many years ago. I had believed that was all legend… but then… well, if the X-blade has been forged again, who knows what else might be true?” He crosses his arms. “Biologically speaking, you’re barely in your twenties. If that were all true, then somehow you would be hundreds of years old.” He stares the boy down; it’s the idea that Demyx is older than him that makes him nauseous.

The boy seems just as shaken. 

“And if that were the case, then--how did you get here? And why?” Can it possibly be time travel? No--can’t. A heart can only travel to where it’s already been, or will be. And if that were hundreds of years after Demyx’s natural life would’ve ended--

He’s turned green. “I don’t know. I barely remember… everything’s gotten so fuzzy.”

No… memories… which would track if he’d traveled through time--but time travel isn’t the only way to blank one’s memories.

But has Demyx always lacked memory?

“I don’t believe it,” Even says. “It must’ve been some sort of ploy… something to give you neophytes purpose… then again…” How can he have found four humanoid Nobodies so quickly like that? It goes in circles… There must be some black-and-white explanation. He approaches the boy, takes hold of his hair, and pulls.

Demyx yelps. “Hey! What are you--”

He places the hair in a sample bag. Not quite sterile, without gloves, but no matter. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Sit down. I need blood.”

He freezes. “What--”

He pulls on gloves, takes a phlebotomy kit from one of the cabinets. He preps the boy’s arm almost on autopilot, his mind boiling with the possibilities. (He has to admit, it feels good to be curious again, better than drowning.) “I need samples. I wonder if there’s any dating technique that could tell us more about this situation.”

“...Dating?”

The boy’s been in and around scientists for so long, yet he hasn’t gleaned this much? “For your DNA. And to see how your other cells might have been impacted by whatever means of preservation that brought you to current day. That is, if any of this is true and not some lotus flower Xehanort was feeding you. There must have been something. This is your original body, yes? I think I’d have remembered making a replica for you.” Unless one was co-opted without his knowledge… no, his record keeping was too pristine. Twenty vessels made, not one missing.

“It better fucking be,” the boy mutters. He flinches when the needle pricks his skin, but doesn’t outwardly complain.

Even takes as much as the boy is willing to give; spit, nail clippings, cheek swabs, and some other skin cells. It will probably also be prudent to take a lumbar fluid sample as well, but he figures Demyx will like that painful process even less. “I dearly hope this isn’t a waste of my time,” Even says. “But imagine the possibilities… and why you? Why not? I don’t pretend to understand Xehanort. Not at all. It’s an awful lot of effort for vessels he could have just made…” He’s thinking aloud, embarrassingly so, and cuts himself off. “I’ve all I need. I let you know if there’s more. You may go.”

He starts almost immediately. It’s been a while since he’s done work like this, but it all comes back. He analyzes the boy’s blood count, isolates the fine strands of DNA in the other samples. He sets this aside and examines the actual makeup of cells, noting with displeasure--and befuddlement--that they seem to be  _ normal. _ He freezes them for further study, and turns back to the DNA.

And is again frustrated. A simple gene pool analysis tells him the boy is completely healthy--no mutations to speak of out of the ordinary--but it offers no deeper insight to anything. He sets a few of the samples aside for some of the dating techniques. By this point, it’s been hours, and he’s exhausted. 

_ You need to sleep, you dunce. If you don’t shut your mind, your body will do it for you. _

He crawls onto his cot. It’s been years since he’s done this, crashed in his lab like some kind of undergraduate. It’s incredibly uncomfortable, but perhaps for this reason he’s able to fall asleep. He’s used to discomfort.

Even dreams.

It makes sense now, how Demyx dreamt his memories (if they are that); he sees his own, reflected back at him. Ienzo, dull eyed, childish, and traumatized; Ienzo, as Even throws himself over the boy to block the darkness. Ienzo, tentatively grown, panic coursing through him.

In a way, Xehanort had been right all those years ago; his record truly  _ is _ two for two.

That boy…

Again he finds his heart aching, for a different reason. How long has it been has he thought about that boy?

Even leaves the castle for the first time since returning. The sunlight hurts his eyes, and the air tastes almost  _ too _ fresh. He notes with an odd sort of coldness the desolation of Radiant Garden; it’s supposedly much better than it was shortly after the restoration, but signs of destruction are everywhere--holes punched out of walls, houses in rubble, weeds poking through the cobbles. And the people, when he sees them (will they recognize him? Will they exonerate him?) look tired. A marketplace has taken over for the shopping centers, the clinic he once interned at has been reduced to a pile of rock.

But the cemetery, Even notes, seems to have been tended to at least somewhat. The grass has been cut, broken stones lodged back in their places. Some sticks of incense still freely burn, filling the air with jasmine and dragon’s blood. 

He doesn’t remember where it is as much as his body does.

There they are, in tandem, their engraved names worn with weather and darkness, but still legible. Even wishes he’d brought his own incense.

He realizes he doesn’t feel much, if anything, when he looks at the memorials.

_ Will being sentimental really help me? _

He does what he always does when he is unsure; he acts. He kneels and bows his head, though he does not pray. He can feel the split ends of his hair brush against his face. He finds that he’s thinking more about cutting it than the truth of his dead spouse and son.

At least they never saw him like this.

“...So you’re here.”

He looks up, seeing, of all people, Dilan, who’s holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums and a box of incense. Even realizes he has nothing clever to say. He just feels tired, on a vaguely spiritual level. “Paying your past dues, as well?” he asks, dryly.

“It is… only prudent.”

A few beats of silence. “I’m sure you would rather visit your own dead, not mine,” Even says softly.

He nods. For just a second, the incredible hardness in Dilan’s eyes is gone. He offers the small wooden box to Even, a lighter. “It’s only proper. But you were never religious.”

“...Thank you. How kind.” He lights the sticks. The smell evokes more than the sight of the stones did. He isn’t sure if he likes having these feelings. For a second he actively tries to make himself cry, but can’t find the need. Or else he is numb; he can no longer tell the difference. Once the sticks are merely ash, he brushes the debris away with a handkerchief, bows once more, and stands, wincing at the painful rush of blood back into his legs. He passes Dilan bowed in his own sort of reverie. Even realizes he cannot recall who Dilan had lost, and feels something like a pang.

He’s at the gates of the cemetery when he hears something chime in his pocket.

It’s so odd to have this tiny computer with him. It’s simple to use, would’ve made life infinitely more convenient in the past. He checks the gummiphone, find that Ienzo has given him a call. He sighs, and dials.

“Even, I need your help.”  
  
Even chances one last glance over his shoulder. He can just see the mass of Dilan’s braids; the man is shuddering, crying.

He takes as brisk of a pace as he can manage, and finds Demyx unconscious in a study room where they used to tutor Ienzo. He’s is kneeling near him, his face drawn. “We were working on a project,” Ienzo offers as prelude. “I had found a musical score--I figured it might be of interest of him, and it was. So I asked him about his training, who taught him music, and so on--he says he can’t remember. I very gently asked if he has forgotten anything else… and he had this reaction.”

Even checks his pulse. “Oddly… his heart rate is normal.” He can’t help but think of their conversation in the lab. Is something manifesting? Or could it perhaps be that Demyx’s adjustment is more physical than his own, that feeling strong things has this reaction? “I’ll take some blood and run a few tests.” 

Demyx isn’t a large man, but they’re both physically weak; they finally maneuver him into bed. He’s relieved to find that there is a by-the-numbers explanation for Demyx’s condition; the boy’s malnourished, his sugar and iron low. He explains this to Ienzo, who is waiting with a perturbed expression on his face. “...What you consider a trigger is no doubt a coincidence.”

Ienzo shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. He had mentioned something about lacking memory. Why is it that when I tried to prod, he had this reaction?”

How to begin explaining? Not to mention, nothing is proven; nothing more than some possibly tall tales fed to Demyx. “Ienzo, you know as well as I do that Demyx has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps he just wanted some attention. Your worry is misplaced.”

Ienzo frowns, scratches his cheek. “...Even, do you have all your memories?”

“Of course I do! I think I would know if that were not the case.” 

“How odd. How odd…” 

Best offer the boy something before he gets too curious. The last thing he needs to worry about is Ansem’s newest stray. “His heart is not yet complete. That may have something to do with it.”

His eyes have that same faraway look that Zexion’s did when he tried to figure something out. “I’m going to take a look at my notes regardless.”  
  
“Still, this brings up the matter of our diet. I had suspected it is somewhat lacking, too high in carbs. Perhaps we can go down to the marketplace and find something more nutritious…”

Ienzo gives him a look, one that tells Even he suspects more is going on.  _ The boy is too perceptive for his own good. _ “Aren’t you at least a little curious?” he asks.

Best be placating. “I am. But at the same time, it’s still so early on. We know now that this recompletion process favors entropy. If we woke with our physical wounds, wouldn’t it make sense to wake up with psychological ones as well?”

He buys it. “I… suppose.”

“He will recover,” Even says gently. He’s touched by Ienzo’s concern. He takes two bottles out of his pocket. “This is just some medication for him. Iron and a painkiller for that hand. I should have noticed how bad it was.”

“I’ll bring it to him. Thank you, Even.”

“I’m the only one here with a doctorate in medicine. My burden to bear.” He smiles--it feels odd--and immediately retreats to his lab. His gut is telling him something; he’s not sure what. He’s forgotten how much he relied on it as Even. Cold intelligence can only get one so far.

He’s tried a few types of radiocarbon dating--likely the half-lives were much, much too long, but this is all a process of elimination. There’s no conclusion to be drawn.  _ It all looks normal. _

Vexen, seeing this data, would likely have shrugged, given up, and worked on something else.

Even knows there’s more to the story.   
  
In a flash, it comes. A genome is so simplistic. Naive of him to think it _would_ tell him anything. In his studies as Vexen, he learned more about human DNA, its sequencing, the moving parts that influence the growth of a person. He returns to the untainted samples, and hopes that the next test he runs will illuminate the truth. 

* * *

But when Demyx comes to him several days later to have his stitches removed, he’s drawn no conclusions. Best not to worry him, either. 

“I’ve come to no conclusions with your samples,” Even says. “So far… everything seems utterly ordinary. Disappointing. I’m running a few tests which will take longer. I’m not sure these memories of yours are as displaced as you think.”

He looks relieved. “That makes more sense.”

“I’m sure with time your memory will return. It just takes some patience. I know that’s not your strong suit.”

He shakes his head. “You’d be surprised. See you at dinner.”  
  
Despite the changes to the computer, it’s taking a long time for it to sequence what Even needs. And it should; the epigenome is infinitely more complicated. It’s clear this will take some time. He has no choice but to _wait_. But without anything else of substance to do…

He’s back to feeling hollow. And helpless.

_ Pull yourself together. You’re a grown man. _

He tries to organize his lab, to clean it back up, to take stock of what he has and what he might need. It keeps his body moving, not so much his mind. The silence is almost piercing, and, ironically, he almost finds himself wishing for music, for conversation. He  _ wants _ to be distracted.

Should he seek it? Distraction, that is? Then again, it might be useful to research other methods of DNA dating, in case there’s something he’s not considering. 

He goes to the library. And finds it almost a much of a mess as anywhere else. “Blast,” he hisses under his breath, wanting a stronger word. “Must I do everything?” He spends some time rearranging the titles, but considering how vast the place is it feels something like a fool’s errand. It will be a job for many more people than just one. The tomes feel heavy, dusty; he’s so used to the clean, smooth volumes from the Organization. Nothing quite so old. The smell is a nostalgic one. One that inevitably gets him thinking about Ienzo, and then more dimly, about the other boy. Holding him. Reading to him.

Visiting them was a mistake.

“It’s a disaster, is it not?”

His head snaps up. “Master,” he says coolly.

Ansem scoops up one of the books he’s set onto the floor, brushes off its cover. “This place used to be my pride and joy,” he says. “And now--it’s all been pillaged.”

“Not to mention many of these volumes would benefit from some climate control.” Some of them are ancient, priceless, one of a kind. He’s never been a bibliophile, not as much as the others, but he knows something valuable when he sees it. 

“...I agree wholeheartedly. Was there anything in particular you were seeking? I’m trying to put it together, piece by piece. But we all have so much on our plates.”

“...That so?”

“I’ve been doing some letter writing. Old fashioned, what with the gummiphones now, but more permanent.” They’re holding eye contact, but Even can just feel the tension in the air. 

“Anything of interest?”

“There may be. You know Ienzo is trying to figure out a way to help Sora?”

“Yes.”

“Mickey had created one of data. I wonder if that data might point us onto the right path--so to speak.”

“It may very well.” A few beats of silence. Even clears his throat. “There’s something I need to tend to,” he says politely.

Ansem smirks. “There always is, isn’t there?”

“I’m a scientist. It’s how I fill my days.”

“To me it feels rather like you’re avoiding everyone. Yourself included.”

He feels himself flush. “Forgive me for not bouncing back so quickly.”

“I don’t think any of us have.”

Even hesitates. How does he begin? “I… had an interesting conversation with Aeleus, not so long ago.”

“...About?”

“The moment of our greatest betrayal.” His voice sounds loud, though he knows it is not. “I--” 

Ansem watches him, the way one might watch a mouse in a kitchen; at what point to stop it? “The moment I heard of those missing people, I knew what you’d all been up to,” he says. “Admittedly… it never occurred to me you’d lie to my face.”

His heart is starting to race, heavy and coppery in his throat. “I’d like to say it was difficult--but that would also be a lie.”

Ansem nods once. “Darkness always hungers for the hearts of men,” he says softly. “Once you’re around it long enough, it… twists everything. I had thought at first… well. That none of you were redeemable.”

He feels that like a punch to the stomach--but is it not true? “And now?”

“Now I know I am not redeemable either.” He gives Even an odd, dark smile. “As you said. We have matters to attend to.”

Even feels vaguely shattered.

* * *

Perhaps it is for this reason that he seeks their old research. He looked at it occasionally as Vexen, but now he knows everything will be different.

Worsening his dread, he recognizes that another IP address has been accessing the data. He knows instantly who it is, but checks anyway. The IP address belongs to Ienzo’s gummiphone.

Even understands the boy’s need to see it, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. There must be hundreds of gigabytes of data--reports, photos, simulations of experiments. Even reads slowly. He reminds himself that each and every single one of these subjects-- _ victims _ \--was a person, a person with hopes, and dreams, and feelings. He finds himself feeling more and more detached; he realizes he can’t breathe. What’s wrong? Why is he reacting this way?

Oh.

It’s not just guilt, but panic. He does not possibly have time to put it right. 

* * *

The boy’s DNA has been sequenced. Now it needs to be analyzed.

Even never realized how rusty he’d gotten in some subjects. For a while he has to  _ study _ , like some sort of student, to grasp again the mechanics of genetics, the biology behind it. His replica project was all  _ engineering _ , not cause and effect.

In the midst of these studies, time seems to be passing. He’s constantly exhausted, not used to these long, hard hours of work. He no longer sleeps as well as when he was young; just as much to do with his body changing as the guilt that keeps him awake.

He prepares for his day, forces himself to eat a full meal. One can’t live on coffee and toast. Ansem pokes his head into the kitchen. He’s holding a sheaf of papers. “Have you seen Ienzo?”

“I believe he’s with Demyx. They’re supposedly working on something.” Would it be so bad, if the two become friends? Goodness knows Ienzo needs one. Then again--what can Demyx possibly provide him?

“Mickey answered my letter. It is quite… illuminating.”

This is a lead-in to a conversation, but all Even can think is “not redeemable.” “I’m glad. It sounds like your work may very well be fruitful.”

Ansem hesitates, seems to stumble for words. “Well--perhaps.” 

“Funny. Sora was always looking for his friends--now he’s the one who must be found.”

“That seems to be the way things go. Karmic payback is never absolute.”

Even has to fight to keep his face neutral. “Quite.”

“Should you see him, can you point him my way?”

“...Certainly.” Doesn’t Ansem have a gummiphone? Can’t he just text the boy?

The man leaves. Even does the dishes. Odd, how much mundane tasks factor into his life again. The Dusks used to do everything for them. With a jolt, he realizes this is another abuse he’s committed; they were basically slaves. It’s this that’s on his mind when he bathes, when he sees Ienzo in the hallway. “Ansem was looking for you. When you’ve a moment, go join him in the lab. Aren’t you still dallying about with Demyx?”

Ienzo’s eyes are harsh. “It’s not dallying. We’re actually working on a legitimate research project. It’s a very old score with lyrics in runes.”

Not his wheelhouse, but if the boy is interested he can’t fault him. Goodness knows he could use some lower-stakes work.“I never had much patience for anthropology, but it is very important to understand the past. I can see why you’d be drawn to it. Though I can’t help but wonder. What  _ is _ it like working with him? I can’t imagine it’s easy.”

The harshness becomes a full-on glare. “Actually, it is somewhat refreshing. He’s smarter than he acts. I wish you would ease up on him just a touch. He’s as vulnerable as I am.”

“Is that so.” So he’s feeling vulnerable.

“Might you do me a favor? He’s fainted again. Could you check up on him in a few hours? I was going to, but I should see what Master Ansem needs.” He explains it--the rapid heart rate, the fever, that Demyx seems to be weak and in pain. Nearly the same exact symptoms as when the heart fragment perished. Was it possible that some trace remained, only to now be killed? Or--more concerning yet--begin some kind of takeover?

Did it merely have to do with the boy’s heart? Even’s own emotions were more volatile and incapacitating than ever. It’s possible he was feeling  _ something. _ But what? Does Even want to know?

Even puts a hand to his chin. Perhaps all the more vital that he studies Demyx’s results. “Yes, I suppose. He is  _ quite _ sickly, isn’t he? It’s a wonder why I’m not as well.”

His voice is very tired, almost exasperated, when he says, “We’re all handling it differently. Thank you, Even.”

* * *

He listens to the boy, and checks in on Demyx. He seems to be asleep, breathing deeply and evenly. Even checks the boy’s pulse; he seems to stir at the touch, blinking disjointedly. “Your vitals have returned more or less to normal. Whatever this spell is, it’s passed.”

“Where’s Ienzo?”

Since when are they on such good terms? “Called away by Ansem. You realize I am also capable of providing you with care, yes?”

“...Sorry.” He touches his breastbone.

He remembers what Ienzo said, to  _ ease up. _ He tries softening his voice. “He did describe your symptoms to me. Quite perplexing on the surface, but no more than a trick of biology. Your heart is still growing. No doubt any strong surge of emotion or memory would be debilitating. I’ve yet to experience it myself, but I’m certain that’s the case.” Demyx watches him warily. “What is it you were feeling, exactly? Hatred for your work? I’m told that’s what you were doing.” So much for kindness. Where is all this volatility coming from, and why can’t he control it?

The boy grits his teeth. “No. It was something else. Guilt.” He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. “I want… I want to be a better person.”

Something like empathy floods him, but then he remembers Demyx’s face during their encounter in the square. How confused he was when Even mentioned atonement. “As much as that warms the cockles of my heart, you must tread carefully. Dive too deeply into the mistakes of your past, and you might not escape. Your new heart is too brittle for that strain. Break it, and you might not be lucky enough to get a new one.” Is he telling Demyx this, or himself? “Good day, Demyx. Rest well.”

Even’s thrown. So the boy feels guilty, does he? Then they’re all hurting.

He turns back to the boy’s epigenome, spread out on paper after paper, one long accordion. He sighs. This is going to take some time.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xion, Naminé, Roxas, and Lea visit, dredging up more than Even bargains for. Even discovers something unexpected about Ienzo.

He studies Demyx with a fascination he didn’t think was possible. He itches for the Organization’s medical records; when he tries to upload them from his old thumb drives, the files are corrupt. But what will it belie, anyway?

The boy’s suffered a lot of stress in his life; cortisol has impacted his DNA in innumerable ways. Does this explain his Nobody’s laziness, his inactivity? Was he trying to spare himself pain--perhaps subconsciously? He begins sequencing his own samples, to act as a sort of control. It makes the work not quite watertight or unbiased, but beggars cannot be choosers, and everyone else seems to be busy. Besides, if he  _ must _ experiment, best to do it on himself.

He receives a text from Ienzo. He’s barely seen hide nor hair of the boy for days; if he hasn’t been working with Demyx, he’s been with Ansem. Even is sure Ienzo is throwing himself so deeply into new work to avoid processing everything that has happened.

Pot, kettle, black.

_ We have some visitors, _ the text reads.  _ Xion, Naminé, Roxas, and Lea would like to see you. _

The mention of Lea’s name makes him bristle; but he does not mind the girls or Roxas. After all, they’re his research, walking and talking. It will be good to see how they’re adjusting, if they’re having any issues.  _ Send them down. _ He almost asks how Ienzo is doing.

Almost.

He tries to fix himself up a bit, knowing his clothes are wrinkled and his hair is a mess. He brushes it and finds himself automatically trying to smooth it into a ponytail--a style he hasn’t worn in many years.  _ Even, is that you _ ? Is he changing too?

There’s a gentle knock at the door, startling him. He takes a quick breath. “It’s open. Do come in.” He’s not used to seeing so many people at once, he realizes. “Hello.”

“Deja vu, huh,” Roxas says pleasantly. 

“You  _ are _ right,” he says. “Then again--not too terribly much about my days are different.” He tries for a patient smile. “Xion, Naminé. Good to see you as well. Frankly I’m surprised you’re back so soon.”

“I heard about the flowers,” she says shyly. “I wanted to see them.”

“I’m afraid it’s nearing winter, but no matter. Town is plenty beautiful.”

The last figure, leaning against the door frame, finally speaks. “...You look good.”

Even can’t help the small flinch. “Lea.”

He’s as tall and wiry as ever. Like everyone else, he looks odd without the frame of the Organization cloak. “When you… have a minute, I wanna talk. I’m sure you want to poke and prod.”

“We volunteered,” Roxas says, grinning.

“Oh, Lea, that’s not necessary.” 

The man looks confused. “After everything? But I want to apolo--”

“Who’d like to be examined first?”

Lea lets it drop, and returns to his position at the door.  _ He’s blocking the only exit. _ Calm down, you fool. He takes each of the teenagers aside, takes blood and the like, asks them how their bodies are behaving. Almost unanimously, they all say that everything is just fine. They certainly  _ look _ indistinguishable from humans, and aside from the fact that neither Xion nor Naminé are menstruating, they essentially are. He needs to examine their telomerase, to see if they’re aging. And yet in all this, he feels little pride.

“You really made me?” Xion asks softly.

“You flatter me, girl,” he says. “I made your body. You did all the rest. Grew your own heart. Figured it out--somehow.” He affords her a smile, finds it genuine. In a rather roundabout way, he realizes, he's her father, having created her body not once, but twice. He finds the thought so jarring he immediately shoves it into the background. 

“I wish I could tell you how,” she says, with a laugh. “I just know that--this body feels so much more  _ mine _ than the last one.”

“Because it was made just for you. The last one was for someone else.”

Slowly, she nods. “You let me be a girl,” she says, more quietly.

Even blinks. “Well… that’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Isa--Saïx--referred to me as “it.””

“Because he saw you as a puppet--nothing more. To a degree… I’m ashamed to say I did too. But I realized… these replicas are so much more than vessels. Here you are, aren’t you?” Even wonders, had the other vessels not merely been implanted with hearts at their birth, if they may have formed their own hearts as well. Would it even be worth exploring that? What right does he to create new life when he barely understands morality?

She smiles shyly, and nods. “Do we really get to just grow up?”

“I need to look into a few things--but I surely hope so.”

“I guess being alive is enough for me. Being remembered, too.”

He drums his fingers on the exam table. He can hear the other three roughhousing behind the curtain, and hope they don’t disturb Demyx’s data, still spread willy-nilly. “Should you not… mature, perhaps I can look into making a body that appears more age-appropriate.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it.” She pauses. “Thanks, Even.”

It’s this more than anything that catches him off guard. “It’s the least I could do, child. I just hope this new life treats you well.”

“Aside from Sora being gone--it is so far.”

He bobs his head. “That’s all we can ask for.”

The three teenagers leave, but Lea hangs on. Even feels his heart in his throat, something like acid in his veins--he tries to bring himself back under control. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asks coldly. “I have a lot of work to do, with what these three have left me.”  
  
He looks, more than anything, ashamed of himself. Even doesn’t like the way it feels when their eyes meet; he can feel sweat beading under his arms, cold and unpleasant. “I… spent the whole ride here thinking about how to talk to the two of you,” he admits. “But I just… now that I see you... “ He exhales. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Even.”

He blinks. “I hope you don’t expect me to assuage your conscience,” he says. “Though I’m sure Ienzo did.” Below anxiety, a rage. He tries to hold onto it. “The boy was loyal. If he truly needed elimination--” It’s physically difficult to get the words out. “Why did it need to be so violent? Why did you feel the need to-- You were peers, Lea. You grew up together. Does that mean nothing to you?”

He can’t make eye contact. “I know, Even. I know. I… it’s one of the things I wish I could take back most. But I can’t. Now he has to live with it--and so do you.”

Even thinks of Ienzo’s scars, of the panic that overtook him. Of his own solemn brutalization. “There’s one thing I want to know. Was it worth it?”

“No. Not at all.” His breath sounds vaguely wheezy. “But it… it wasn’t right. It  _ isn’t _ right. I never really had to… pay for what I did. Is there… something I can do for you?”

Even just wants him out of here. “You could avoid mentioning it again.”

He’s never seen Lea like this, so shaken. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t give him immense satisfaction. He takes a step forward, and Even immediately takes one back. “Right. I… Right.” He nods. “I’m so… neither of you deserved it. Not that way. I’m sorry.” He says it almost like a nervous tic. “I…”

“We all have to learn to deal with guilt,” he adds. 

“Yeah.”

“You should go join those friends of yours. Make sure they don’t get in any trouble.” He wants to turn back to his work; but his body won’t let him. 

“I will.” He straightens a little. “I’m sorry.” Finally, he leaves, and Even shuts and locks the door behind him. He’s breathing hard. He tries to remember what he told Ienzo--about this reaction being normal--but it doesn’t  _ feel _ normal. He sinks to the floor weakly, his white coat puddling around him. He can’t recall ever having such intense anxiety. He tries to breathe, remembering what he was taught in med school about reversing the flight or fight instinct--inhale, eight count, hold, seven count, exhale, four count--and it doesn’t seem to be doing much good.

* * *

When he finally, wearily pulls himself together, he can’t bring himself to begin studying their samples. It makes him think too much of Lea. He turns back to Demyx, because this  _ is _ a problem he can solve, or try to.

On the matter of Demyx…

It’s Isa who has the diplomacy to find him, this time. “I… truly apologize for the interruption,” he says. “I realize you’re probably unsettled after seeing Lea.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The man nods once. “I’d say it’s good to see you--and it is--but I’m afraid I need help.”

Even sighs. “Which one of the miscreants got hurt?”

“Nobody’s hurt. Well, not literally, anyway.”

Demyx has, again, collapsed. Apparently the three have spent some time together--spoke about their pasts--and he dropped like a sack of potatoes. His vitals are much the same as last time. Whatever this is, it’s either getting better or worse; it seems to be happening with concerning frequency. The last thing Even needs is another dead body on his hands.

Ienzo arrives back on their floor, looking exhausted and ragged--when was the last time the child got some sleep? He sees the three of them by Demyx’s door and furrows his brows. “Is everything alright?”

“Demyx fainted again,” Even says tiredly.

“He was hanging out with us, and we were just talking about our lives and pasts and whatnot,” Lea says.

“It is strange he doesn’t have his sitar,” Isa adds.

Ienzo is nonplussed. “Well, none of us have our Nobody weapons,” Ienzo says. “It’s a pity, yes, but it’s just our biology.”

Lea stares him down. “Then explain this.” He summons his chakrams; it takes all of Even’s strength to keep his expression neutral. But once the wave of panic begins to pass… why is it Lea, of all people, retains his Nobody’s weapons? 

Ienzo blinks. “Have you always had them, as Lea?”

“Since I woke up. Came easier than the Keyblade.”

Ienzo seeks Even’s gaze, an explanation; he can’t offer one.

“And if he’s half as connected to his sitar as I am to these babies, --and he is--, he should definitely still have it.” The weapons disappear, much to Even’s relief. 

“We told him as much, and then he blacked out,” Isa says.

“He and I still only have part of our hearts,” Even tells them. “It’s made him very brittle.”

“He’s taken the loss very hard,” Ienzo says. “I hope this is a good sign that it’ll return to him.”

“We’ve all handled this situation uniquely. I don’t think there necessarily is a standard,” Even says. He’s sure he’s right; their sample size of Nobodies-then-humans is so small. They can’t consider anything to be set in stone. “I’ll try to investigate further. I should like to be able to use ice again. It made my experiments so much easier.” But if power comes from the will…

Ienzo touches his face, a thoughtful gesture.

Even tries to puzzle it out, aware of the errant small talk around them; finally the two leave. He takes a quick breath. “Those two tire me,” Even says. “Lea would not stop apologizing. As if the path to goodness is so simple.” He shakes his head. “I admit it was nice to speak with Xion. She’s a lovely girl, very bright and personable. I should like to get to know her. To believe I created her myself, and I don’t understand her mind. It’s fascinating.”

“Yes,” Ienzo says numbly.

He looks beyond exhausted; terrible. Even feels concern blot out the rest of his anxiety. “Are you off to get some sleep?”

“In a few moments. I wanted to check on Demyx first.”

“His vitals are stable and he’s merely asleep now. I was just in there.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

He turns to leave. Seeing Ienzo like this has tugged something in him. “On the subject of people I raised… you do know I still care for you, yes?” It feels so odd to admit it. Uncomfortable, almost.

He cants his head slightly. “What made you think about that?”

He considers it. He’s made Xion as surely as he’s tended to Ienzo. Yet, he’s barely seen or interacted with either of them in all this time, holing himself up, doing--what--and being largely pathetic. “Xion’s presence gave me clarity. I have been… cold, to pardon the pun. I have been isolating myself, and that is not healthy. I am wondering what it might be like to be Even again.” He chances touching him, giving his shoulder a squeeze; he doesn’t flinch away. “You’re a good boy. You’re too hard on yourself.”

Yes. This is all true.

How is being alone helping anything? How it is healing these bonds? How is it atonement? He needs to do better, to be better. To try harder and not indulge his own selfish whims.

Ienzo cares about Demyx at least a little. If Even can help the boy…

* * *

It's late at night when he figures it out. He's drowsy, very nearly nodding, papers spread around him like a fan. He's been comparing his results with the boy's, not finding anything of interest, to his rising frustration.

And then.

It's all in the frayed, fragile ends of telomerase. Temporal markers. Even knows Demyx is about twenty-seven years younger than himself, a generation before. Ergo, their timelines should  _ roughly _ sync up, they should have at least a few markers in common.

They don't. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he holds the paper. He blinks, hard, hoping his exhausted mind isn't playing tricks on him. He sees it there. Undeniably.

He's breathing hard, tasting paper.

"Oh, Xehanort. You  _ bastard. _ "

* * *

For a long time after that Even sits, his head in his hands, on his cot.  _ The boy's from the past. The boy's from the fucking past. _ How?  _ How? _ This makes no sense given what they know about time travel. But it comes to him in pieces--Demyx hasn't volunteered his old name  _ because he can't remember it.  _ And if Xemnas hadn't been lying--he hasn't so far, unbelievably--then the  _ boy is also a Keyblade wielder. _

He laughs out loud, a weird, mostly-feral sound. How like Xemnas, to torture him for years about his progress with the replicas only to have four sleepers  _ right under his nose. _ It feels very nearly personal. Was this revenge, for trying to run off with Ienzo?

But--why wasn't Demyx's weapon of choice a Keyblade, then, nor the other three neophytes?

Xemnas had been part of Xehanort--a Keyblade wielder--and hadn't had one either.

Ah.

He found the four somehow--old friends? But they never got along in the Organization--blanked their memories, only to have their Nobodies immediately lose their worthiness. Hence, the need for Roxas, and the replicas. But not to get rid of them, in case he can find a way to make them useful. And without memories, they were all the easier to manipulate.

In a flash, Even feels sorry for the boy, and then stricken because _he has to tell him all this_.

He forces himself to try to sleep. He’s able to manage a few hours, though it doesn’t give him much clarity. He has to find Demyx. He has to know.

The boy sits leaning heavily against one hand in the apprentices’ kitchen, a half-eaten bowl of oatmeal in front of him. “Have you a moment?” Even asks.

He seems shocked; Even’s tone must be half-deranged. He stands, and Even grasps him by the wrist, tugging him back to the lab, his evidence. “Are you mad at me?” the boy asks.

“I suppose, in a sense. Your DNA has caused me to lose countless hours of sleep.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. Since when does Demyx apologize for anything? “I’m guessing you didn’t find anything.”

Even begins bracing himself. “No. Precisely the opposite. Come here.” He herds the boy over to his table. “I’ve parsed everything you’ve given me. Looking simply at your genome, I was frustrated. It’s normal. See, have a look. If you compare yours and mine, aside from the average differences owing to our makeups, they’re the same. But then… I decided to look at your epigenome. Have you heard of it?”

He shrugs. “Well… isn’t that stuff like… how I was raised?”

“Well, it’s countless different factors, like the amount of oxygen you received in the womb, and the food you’ve eaten. Which is why it’s taken me so long to isolate them, and then to make sense of them. Now, again, I used myself as the comparison point. If you look at yours…” He shoves the papers in front of the boy. “...And mine, it started to make sense. Of course nearly all of the markers are going to be different. Take a look at these. These markers here… they’re kind of like the amount of time your body’s spent in the environment, so to speak. Hard to tell just by looking at the regular genome. I can  _ tell _ from your genome that you’re roughly twenty-two years of age, and you can tell from  _ mine _ that I am… well. It’s accurate, I can assure you. But these… these!” He finds he can’t breathe. “Your temporal markers should at least  _ slightly _ resemble mine. They don’t. If I’m right at all… your little theory might have some purchase.”

He looks like he’s been punched. “So you’re saying--” He swallows. “It’s true?”

“The initial tests seem to indicate that, yes.”

He slumps heavily against the table, horrorstruck.

“I had the precise same reaction,” Even says.

“It’s why I don’t remember,” Demyx says.

“You’ve no memory?” Even asks. He’s figured--yet, to hear the truth of it is all the more jarring.

“Only the dreams. Only what I’ve told you about.” He’s shaking. Even’s never seen the boy so upset. “Am I really… did I really live through the Keyblade War?”

If his legacy is sleeping… he was seventeen when Xehanort recruited him. Supposedly the first Keyblade war involved children… “You may very well have.”

“How? Why?”

“I’m thinking it has something to do with some sort of self-preservation. We all know that when the body and heart are in danger, especially if one is a Keyblade wielder, a person can produce otherwise impossible feats of magic. This had to be what Xemnas, and by extension, Xehanort saw in you.” Still time travel. Yet-- 

The boy puts a hand over his mouth. He’s breathing hard.

Even tries to be gentle, but to be dishonest would be imprudent. “I don’t know if it’s possible to awaken those memories. It would most definitely be too much for your new heart to take.” Even shakes his head. Which explains the fainting. “Fate… is cruel.”

His blue-green eyes are full of pain. Even feels something very nearing concern. “I don’t want this. I just… I just wanted to play sitar,” he says. He turns and flees. Even actually tries to follow, but the boy is too fast, and is gone in a blink. He’s not sure how much comfort he can offer, if any.

No memories. No home to turn to, no way to get there. Without the comfort of a calling, or passion. And if he’s a war survivor--of course it makes sense that his Nobody would despise fighting, would avoid it at all costs. Would settle for observing, avoiding, staying under the radar…

Almost against his will, Even gets better insight of the boy than he’s ever had.

And he’s been nothing but short with him.

Why is it that trying to help has only caused more damage?

* * *

He tries to sleep, in a real bed this time. He refrains from going to his lab. His mind is horridly muddled, emotions crawling unpleasantly below the skin. He needs time. He cannot perform if he cannot think clearly. He walks, reads. The light coming in through the windows of his quarters seems impossibly sharp.

Early one of these mornings, he sits with coffee, trying to convince himself he’s not unravelling ( _ weak _ ). Ansem, with books and sheafs of paper. Ansem, looking every bit as terrible as Ienzo did the other day. “You’re unwell,” his master says.

“I could say the same,” he says levelly. “I’ve… had a lot to do.”

“Yes. As have I.”

A few beats of silence. 

“Any progress, with Sora?” Even asks. 

But Ansem just shrugs. “I’m not certain. We’ve been reviewing the footage of the Data Sora Mickey sent us… We’re to see if it has bonds. If we can  _ partially _ understand Sora’s heart, maybe we can understand the real thing… might be able to use one of his real friends, to find him, much as Riku did during the Mark of Mastery.”

Even mulls it over. “Sounds something of a fool’s errand,” he says.

But Ansem doesn’t get defensive; in fact, he just sighs. “Yes,” he says. “I agree completely. But Ienzo… this is so important to him. I must do whatever I can to help the young man.”

Even frowns. “Yes.”

“He is… truly different than I remember. More verbose, for one thing. I recall a time when the boy struggled to string words together. And softer, too.”

At least they have this one thing than I can talk about. “I saw it happen, and I’m still baffled by the change,” Even admits. “He was once so cold and calculating as a Nobody.”

“That… makes sense. Grew up in darkness, in nothing, with little need for a conscience. Doubtful the new presence of empathy is very painful. We’ve spoken only briefly about the past… and then this seems to upset him deeply.”

“He’s compartmentalized,” Even realizes slowly. “Otherwise… how to survive, psychologically?”

A sigh. “Quite. If any of what you’ve told me about Demyx is true, perhaps he can teach that child how to relax. I daresay he needs it.”

Even debates--should he tell Ansem? Then again, he doubts Demyx wants this secret everywhere. “...Yes.”

“I should… return, then. He asked to see these.”

Even flicks his eyes up. Ansem’s eyes aren’t warm, but they’re not quite so cold, either. “I’d say “good luck,” but… well…”

He nods once, and leaves. 

Even truly does not know what to do with himself. He worries about Ienzo, the boy’s mental state. If he feels half as unwell as Even does--and likely he feels much worse--then it could potentially be disastrous.

So he does the only thing he knows--he researches. He goes to the library, pulls some volumes on abnormal psychology, carts them to his lab, and reads. But there’s no precedence for anything like this, such acute psychological devastation. The closest it comes to is complex post traumatic stress, and even that doesn’t seem to fit the bill. Even again feels that desperate itch, the need to help, only how?

The door to his lab bangs open, and there’s Demyx. He’s breathless, flushed; he must’ve been running. Even realizes that he’s probably the only one without a gummiphone, and ergo, this is likely some emergency. “I need…” he gasps.

“Slow down, boy. Catch your breath. What’s the rush?”

He clutches his chest. “Ienzo,” he spits. “He had a… a nosebleed, and then I was trying to get him to go to bed, but he just…” He seems so concerned, more than Even has ever witnessed--perhaps the two really are friends. “He passed out, Even, isn’t responding at all.”

He feels a surge of something like fear, and then anger--of course Ansem’s been allowing the boy to work himself into the ground. He grabs at supplies and follows the boy back as quickly as he is able to.

Even knows it’s bad, but he’s still not mentally prepared for what he sees.

Ienzo isn’t just pale, he’s sallow, his skin waxy, his lab coat stained with close to a liter of blood. The boy’s half-conscious, his eyes empty, vacant, not completely unlike the night Xehanort arrived. The first thing he does is start the boy on fluids and glucose, checking his vitals, finding them even more disturbing; blood pressure like that of a cold snake, the rhythm of his heart off. His skin is dry, as well, likely from dehydration. He gives him a few different injections, to try and neutralize the cortisol he’s no doubt flooded with, a very mild tranquilizer to force him to sleep. He’s positive the boy’s been neglecting his own needs, unaware as to how much more devastating they could be to his human body. Humans simply don’t bounce back the way Nobodies do when subjected to such stress; nor do they metabolize it so well.

Demyx is horrified. “I told him. I told him to take care of himself.”

“He only listens when he wants to,” Even says.

“Is that what this is? Something because of overwork?”

Even sighs and explains. “The blood loss must have only exacerbated his condition. Best you found me when you did. With rest, and the proper care, though… he’ll recover.” He’s already stabilizing, thank the stars. He wipes the smear of blood off of the boy’s face and turns back to the medicine at the dresser. Perhaps at the damp cloth, Ienzo seems to come to. “Demyx?”

The other boy crouches at the bedside and takes his hand. Even bristles. Against his will, it’s starting to make sense--

Ienzo’s voice is very weak when forces out a “What--”

“You passed out. I am going to yell at you when you get better. Just a warning. I can be scary.”

Then, very deliberately, or not deliberately at all, Demyx leans in and kisses him on the forehead. 

Oh.

Of course.

He feels something rising in him, something like disbelief, or anger. He hears Demyx consoling Ienzo (so gently?), but his own heart is racing. “So.  _ That _ is the nature of your connection with Ienzo.”

He turns, and Even sees it in his eyes; caught. Ienzo has either fallen asleep, or is pretending to.

“He  _ has _ mentioned you an awful lot. But I must admit I am flabbergasted. What is it you two even have in common?” Not to mention, what does it mean concerning Demyx’s past?

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I… I care about him. And I think he feels the same about me.”

That so. He exhales slowly. He’s definitely angry; this much he can grasp. “It is not up to me any longer to try and stop that boy from making mistakes,” he said. “But if this ends poorly… you realize there will be hell to pay.” Not just from him, he’s sure.

But this doesn’t faze him, or intimidate him, like he hoped. There’s an odd resolve in his eyes Even’s never seen before. “Yes. I know.”

“That is all I have to say about that. At least until I process this. I am much too tired.” Even shakes his head, feeling the brunt of a headache in full. “I’ll come back to check on him. If there’s any unusual change, notify me at once.”

“I will.” He turns back towards Ienzo, his eyes full of such worry and--dare Even see it--tenderness.

Great. Just…  _ great _ .


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The revelation of Ienzo's relationship with Demyx throws Even badly, forcing him to confront his humanity and the past.

Uselessly, Even sits, trying to come to terms with… all that. He’s feeling dizzy himself, and he honestly cannot tell if it’s his actual physical condition or not.

The boy’s health matters above all. Ansem must be given a stern talking-to, though doubtless he’s so used to overworking himself that he wouldn’t have noticed anything undue in Ienzo.

Ienzo.  _ Oh, child, what are you getting yourself into? _ Of course, now that he’s no longer a Nobody, odds were he would have come to these feelings sooner or later--it’s only natural--but he’s so emotionally immature that something like this would only end poorly. And is Demyx even capable of giving the boy what he needs--an understanding of his mind and how it works? Intellectual stimulation?

Have they actually been working on a project, or have they instead--

_ Do not dwell on that. _

Ienzo can’t handle heartbreak. Likely at the moment, neither of them can see the consequences facing them. 

Even feels sick. It must’ve taken him hours to figure out why--time where he gives said troublemaker more fluids, more glucose, Demyx stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes all the while--but eventually… he does.

Ienzo is not a child. He’s grown now, and will surely have adult wants and needs (as much as it reviles him to think about). But so like a child, he’s not yet capable of understanding those needs. He’s probably never had to feel anything like this, doubling the trauma if things go south.

Even’s own son never got to grow up. He would be perpetually five, a ghost whispering in the background, fading more day by day.

This is uncharted territory. He does not know how to be of use. 

Ansem needs to know--if anyone can convince that boy of anything, it’s him.

It feels odd, after all these years, to approach him first. Worse still, to find him at the computer at the hearth of their old lab. Knowing the genesis of all this is so close only makes him feel sicker. “Master. A word.”

His head snaps up, likely at Even’s odd tone. “Is something the matter?” Then, immediately. “Where’s Ienzo?”

“I have to talk to you about that.” 

Ansem stands; and stumbles. Without thinking, Even grasps him to keep him upright. 

“You need rest,” he says.

“I… am aware. And I shall. But first you must tell me what’s going on. I’m not fond of this new flair for the dramatic you have, Even.”

“I’m only as  _ dramatic _ as the lot of you,” he spits. “Come. I’ll take you back to your quarters.”

He knows he’s been here recently, but only with the others; seeing it on his own gives him a new perspective. He’s spent so many hours here, over the years--arguing, brainstorming, simply conversing with someone at his level. He feels something like… nostalgia? Bittersweetness? He plies Ansem with water, sinks onto one of the chintz chairs. To Ansem’s tired eyes he explains, “Ienzo’s very unwell.”

“I know you’re concerned about his mental state, as am I--”

He scowls. “I mean the boy collapsed, Ansem.”

Perhaps it’s the use of his first name, but Ansem just blinks. “Is he--”

Even stands and begins pacing. “Where to even begin? Dehydrated as a desert--blood pressure of the dead. Had such a bad nosebleed it looked like something out of a tawdry horror novel. His heart was starting to palpitate--likely if this continued for any longer, he might’ve--” He stops cold, his anger cooling. “It’s lucky he was not alone when it happened.”

“But is he--”

“Stable. Asleep. I gave him a very mild tranquilizer to calm him down, and his body will take care of the rest.” He crosses his arms tightly. “This has to stop. I know you desperately want to be close with him again, but simply indulging the boy won’t do any good. It’s going to take--more work.”

Ansem has turned very pale. He holds his glass of water tightly. 

He takes a deep breath. “There’s something else you have to know.”

“...Which is?”

“Demyx and Ienzo’s liaison--”

“ You’re going to fault them for finding friends in one another?”

“--it’s more than just that. They’re…” He can’t bring himself to say the word.

Ansem gets it. “...Oh. Well.”

“There’s no way this can end well. The boy’s gone through so much--both of them, actually--can he really take much more?”

“I’m afraid you know them both better than I do.” He sighs heavily, swills the water around in his glass. “I know you want to protect him, Even.”

He feels weak, tired now.

“I am not happy about it either. But he also… has to be given the space to make his own decisions.”

“They both have trauma they haven’t come to terms with--Ienzo doesn’t--he’s never had to feel such things. I’m afraid--”

“I know, Even. And it’s touching you care so much--for a moment I almost saw the old you.”

He can’t stop himself from admitting, “I feel as if I never have enough time--and yet I’m also doing nothing more useful than waffling. Which I suppose… is all I ever did.” The realization saps the strength from him. “Hiding behind my research… foolish, prideful,  _ passive. _ I… All I’ve ever done is hurt people--especially those I considered the most dear.” 

Slowly Ansem says, “I wonder why it is you feel this now.”

He rests his face against his palm for a moment. He feels overwhelmed, on the verge of dissolving. Remorse closes a fist around his heart, making it almost impossible to breathe. He stands, feeling the ground pitch a little--a sear of pain cuts through his chest. Before he loses consciousness he realizes  _ this is exactly how the boy felt. _

* * *

It hurts to breathe. “Easy. Steady, now.” He’s eased carefully into a sitting position. He wonders if he hit his head on the way down; a splitting ache makes the light hurt. He gasps a little, pressing a hand against his brow. “Are you alright?” Ansem asks.

“Clearly not,” he spits. “All along I thought…”

“What?”

“That the boy was being dramatic…”

“Ienzo?”

“Demyx.” He takes his weight back from Ansem. He’s on the study floor. “It is  _ exquisitely _ painful.” 

“What is?”

One pinch of pain and all of a sudden he’s revealing things he shouldn’t. “You know very well our hearts are not yet whole,” he says. “All these fainting spells on his part… I guess I’m not an outlier.”

“So you were feeling.”

“As if one can make it stop.” He takes his own pulse. Surely enough, it’s racing. “Damnit…” 

“You’re not well either, are you?” Ansem asks gently. Even can’t read his expression either. “I thought you were self-aware enough to understand hypocrisy.”

The surge of anger he feels brings the pain back, but he stays conscious. “The only thing that is certain is that I truly understand  _ nothing. _ ” He tries to stand, stumbles. 

“...You should not go anywhere in this state.”

“I’ll be fine.” He sounds breathy, and can’t fight Ansem when the man sits him gently on the loveseat.

Even can feel it coming; he shivers. And the last thing he needs is  _ Ansem _ to witness him like this. 

“Are you cold?”

If anything, he’s sweating. But he admits in a pathetic voice, “Yes.”

Ansem drapes a blanket around his shoulders, one that smells vaguely musty. Even keeps his eyes on the floor, fighting the rising tide inside of him.  _ It’s going to happen whether you want it to or not. _ “You struggle,” Ansem says quietly.

Even can feel the cutting retort on his tongue, but it’s like flash paper, gone in an instant. “Don’t you?” Then the words are spilling out of him like he truly  _ is _ some kind of puppet. “How do you do it? Just--go back to the way things were? How can you bear to look at me? At  _ us _ ? Why are you letting us stay here? Aren’t you angry?”

His expression is curiously neutral, diplomatic. He may be king no longer, but he’s dusted off the mask. “The situation is rather complicated. I’m horrified at what you’ve done. But Even, you’ve been my friend for thirty-five years. As though I can forget that at all. Nor does it make it easier to see you like this.”

“Some friend I was, to let this happen.”

“You cannot ignore the truth of Xehanort’s manipulation. Of the darkness.”

“...The darkness merely brought out the truest parts of myself.”

Ansem flinches. “It… does.”

They hold eye contact for a long, long time. Ansem breaks the silence first.

“I believed Heartless… Nobodies… all of your  _ discoveries _ were abominations. That they needed elimination. Even those with sentience were just… tools I used in my vain attempt at revenge.” His hands are both outstretched. “Much like you… I gave myself a new name… covered myself in a new garb… and hid behind my so-called work, claiming good intentions.” He looks back at Even. “We’re not different, Even. Had I been in your shoes, on the ground with Xehanort… who knows what I have done? And were you in mine… would you have been able to stop me?”

The tide threatens to choke him now. 

“Maybe we can’t find forgiveness in each other. Maybe we’re not meant to. But to… forsake one another is not much better.”

He gasps out one sob, clapping a hand over his mouth. 

“If you don’t allow yourself to feel, Even, you can never hope to be any better.”

How truly odd a mental breakdown is, he thinks. He feels almost as if he is watching himself, a shaking, weeping wreck. Simultaneously numb and in agony at the same time. This must be how Ienzo felt, while Even was recovering from his wounds; overwhelmed, uncontrollable, utterly  _ weak. _

“Don’t fight it,” Ansem says. “Just let it be.”

More painful yet, to be consoled by him. “I betrayed you--and all you stood for. I betrayed… Ienzo _. _ He said he wouldn’t touch the boy. Why did I ever--”

Ansem frowns. “Xehanort?”

He’s said too much. Even feels how tightly he’s curled up, face parallel with the ground. “Who else? But he… he felt no… anxiety, no overstimulation. Now I’m afraid--” Afraid of what?

Perhaps, simply, afraid.

He sits up. Ansem offers him a clean handkerchief, a glass of water. “I should like to go see Ienzo myself,” he says softly. “You stay here as long as you need.”

Of course Even leaves as soon as Ansem’s out of earshot. He’s beyond humiliated.The fever, brief as it was, has left an unpleasant film along his skin, and so he bathes, winching as he brushes scars, the strange numbness and hypersensitivity.

The towel he’s draped over the mirror has fallen; he sees himself. His skin is a patchwork. From his collarbones all the way to his feet, brittle scars cover him.

_ It’s no less than what you deserve. _

He dresses and falls into a restless sleep. 

* * *

For a while he feels numb. Even sleeps a lot; it seems like his strings have snapped, and he can’t move. He can’t tell if he’s merely just exhausted, or if this is his depression worsening. He considers pharmaceuticals; but when he checks his stock, he finds everything expired. Figures.

He decides he must go to the marketplace, to get some supplies. See what he can find. 

“Where have you been?” Dilan asks. “Feel like I haven’t seen your mug in some time.”

“I’m afraid I was feeling rather ill,” Even tells him. It’s the truth, at least partially. “I fear I wasn’t taking adequate care of myself, and needed rest. Ienzo’s collapse was something of a wakeup call.” Despite his sweater, and coat, he’s shivering, and he isn’t even outside. Is this because his BMI is too low? Or is he merely unused to feeling the cold anymore, after being Vexen?

“Yes.” Dilan sneers. “I’ve heard about that.”

“Oh?”

“Impossible not to. They’ve been practically joined at the hip since last week.”

“...Have they.” He feels that swell of anger, of concern. 

“It’s not all that surprising. This is just a flash in the pan; nothing more. Warm bodies, you know? That’s all I care to think on the matter.”

He feels another swell of disgust. “...I feel similarly.”

“Where are you going?”

“My supply of medication is expired. I need to seek out more--considering it seems I’m the one for such things now.”

“That woman Aerith is a healer. Perhaps you might get what you need from her.” 

Even chuckles. “I’ll feel better with what’s proven.”

Dilan shrugs. “Would you mind particularly if I joined you?”

_ Why? _ Even nearly asks. “...If you must.”

It’s colder outside; more jarring. Even winces, adjusting the scarf at his throat. “I forgot about these winters,” Dilan says. “Say what you want about that godforsaken castle--at least it was well-insulated.”

“Those coats  _ were _ rather warm, weren’t they,” Even mutters. But the thought of putting one on repulses him. 

He chuckles. “No, I do not wish to be young,” he adds, shaking his head. “These things are… difficult enough as it is. I don’t know how either of them are sane.”

“Clearly, they aren’t.”  _ I don’t feel much better off. _ “But if Ienzo wants to get hurt… well, I’m to let him make his own decisions, aren’t I?”

“He  _ is _ twenty,” Dilan points out. “It was bound to happen sometime.”

“I’m not sure if you agree, but I… feel so very odd, being here.”

His expression darkens. “Yes,” he says. “But where else would we go? And--what else would we do?”

"I can't tell you. I feel as though…" He trails off.

"You've no idea where to begin?" Dilan offers.

"...Indeed."

"I can… tell. Even, my old friend. Please do not take offense. But whenever I've seen you recently… you seem so besides yourself."

"I… am not offended." He smiles wryly. "I'm merely realizing the all-too-human costs of what we did."

Town is approaching. For their own protection, soon they will have to lower their voices.

"I've been rereading our Organization reports," Dilan says. "I didn't realize you had so many."

"I'm afraid with my… unseemly departure, close to a year is missing--arguably the most cataclysmic year."

"Isa left a relatively detailed record. You needn't worry too much." The frozen ground crunches a little under his feet. "All those Heartless that were made--that  _ I _ made--the people who were killed because of it--"

Even touches his arm. "Peace," he says softly. "You and I… are much in the same boat." Streets begin blooming around them. "You have to forgive me, Dilan."

He raises his brows. "Oh?"

"That day in the cemetery… I've known you over twenty years, and yet I could not recall who you lost."

The memory softens his face. "I'm afraid I'm--frightfully sentimental," he murmurs. "I had a twin, once. I used to… visit her on our birthdays. She was quite young. The thought of having missed so many… put things into a sort of perspective. A human pain."

Even furrows his brows. "Oddly… it was my worry for another that helped me decide to atone. The bonds." He shakes his head.

"Ienzo." Not a question. "You always had a soft spot for the boy."

"I wonder often if he's the by-product of some parental instinct of mine."

"...A replacement for your son?" He thinks, fussing with his jacket cuffs. 

"Perhaps."

"A heart has room to love more than one." He shrugs. "Though--essentially the boy  _ is _ your son _. _ "

"I'm sure if he heard that he'd disagree." Even stops cold.

Dilan frowns. "Even?"

"We've… betrayed him, the three of us. We…"

Dilan puts his hands on Even's shoulders. "I… know."

He swallows. "Let's finish this errand."

* * *

"Errant" is the right word for it.

Even sits at the desk in his quarters, a frightful numbness overtaking him in waves. He had no luck finding antidepressants; not that it could've cured him anyway. He's never felt quite this woeful. But every time he thinks he's understood it, he realizes more ugly truth.

_ I am irredeemable. _

A gentle knock at his door. "Enter," he says tiredly.

It's Aeleus--Even breaths a small sigh of relief. "We've been invited to dinner," he says. "Up with Ansem. Ienzo's cooking."

His heart aches. "Oh… I… see."

"I can tell them if you're in the middle of something."

"I'll go. Better than subsisting off of toast."

Aeleus nods, but remains there. Even turns towards him in the chair.

"You've more to say."

"Why do you think the three of us grew apart?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Who? Myself, you, Dilan?"

"You, me… and the boy." He drops his eyes. "I was… reflecting on my time in Castle Oblivion. The three of us… all we basically did was argue with one another.”

“Until we all started dropping like flies, you mean?” Even asks. He sighs. 

“I’m afraid to say I did not feel much for either of you.” He drops his eyes.

Even nods slowly. “I experienced much the same,” he admits. “The moment I became Vexen--the first time--I could feel that I had been ostracized from all I ever cared for. And in the moment, it was… liberating.”

“To not have to care?”

“...Yes.”

“It was,” he says softly. “Wasn’t it? But then again… to have those feelings back… it seems only right. Natural.”

Even can’t help but agree, despite the pain it’s causing him; his concern for the others is the only thing keeping him here. (In the castle? Or--)

_ Do not dwell on that. _

“Shall we walk together, Even?” Aeleus asks.

“Of course. I admit.” He sneers a little. “I  _ am _ curious to witness this trainwreck in motion.”

They set off. After a moment, Aeleus says, “I know you are worried for Ienzo’s heart,” Aeleus says. “I am too. But at the same time… if something makes him happy, however brief, are we justified in trying to take that from him?”

“He’s already so mentally fragile, I fear--”

“Aren’t you? Aren’t we all? Aren’t bonds supposed to help with all that?”

Even scowls, irritation rising in him. “Who knows,” he mutters. “I surely don’t, apparently.”

Aeleus, either stung or out of tact, lapses into silence.

It’s odd. The table has been set, neatly; he can see Ienzo conscious for the first time since he’s collapsed, in civilian clothing, his skin a normal color again, bustling around the kitchen. Demyx hands him a serving platter. Even observes them warily, notes that Ansem and Dilan are doing the same; but neither boy seems to notice. Ienzo laughs at something Demyx says, a sound Even hasn’t heard in a long time (if ever?). Demyx looks at the boy with… something, something that isn’t quite lust, it’s much too soft.

Oh dear. It’s worse than he could’ve thought.

They settle in for dinner; Demyx sits in the spot that normally Even gravitates towards, unaware of the decorum. Nobody mentions this. Nobody talks about much of anything, actually, and for a while the only sounds come from the gentle scrapes of spoons against bowls. Demyx and Ienzo both keep their eyes on their plates. 

Even can’t help himself. “I see you’re feeling well, Ienzo. What is it you’ve both done to keep yourselves busy?” He tries to keep his tone affable, but he sees the dangerous look in Ienzo’s eye and Demyx’s blush, only further confirming-- _ you’ll just torture yourself. _

“Not much you’d find of interest, I’m afraid,” the boy explains. “Resting, mostly. We both were lacking winter things, so we’ve spent some time in town. That’s about all.”

“I am sure we’re all glad to see you back in good health,” Even says to him. “I just hope that this new development does not cloud your judgement going forward. To be young and… caught up in such matters, can no doubt impede your critical thinking. However natural it is.”

Ienzo sets down his teacup. He’s blushing, but the frustration in his voice is undeniable. “Clearly you have thought on the subject, and I appreciate your concern. But I feel as though I am just as able to take on my research as I ever were. Not that I have asked for your advice. Should you have more to say on the matter, please let us discuss it in private.” After a moment, “You needn’t worry about me anymore,” Ienzo says, a bit more gently. “I… I’m not the little boy I was.”

He shakes his head. “I will always worry about you,” he says. “After all, I’ve so much time to make up for.” It’s the most personal thing he’s said to him in some time. 

He softens a little, but says no more. After a rather awkward silence, Demyx speaks. “Anyone want seconds?”

The boys remain around long enough to be polite; they do the dishes and take their leave ( _ do not think about what it is they’re going to do). _ Revulsion makes his stomach sour. 

But Even finds it’s actually more awkward with them gone; without the drama of the relationship as a buffer, it’s the four of them together alone in a room for the first time since…

No, can’t be. Is it?

Since the last time they were all together in the basement.

Even considers excusing himself as well, but Ansem breaks the silence. “I believe we all are… concerned in our own ways,” he says slowly. He poured himself a glass of wine at the beginning of the dinner, one that is still untouched. “But it’s only right to allow the boys to be human. You’ve been rather defensive, Even.”

Dilan smirks. Even isn’t sure how much wine he’s had, if he’s drunk. “What was it you said? “I’ve so much time to make up for?” Rather softhearted now, aren’t you?”

“It’s what I have to hold onto,” Even admits, startled by his own candor. “Almost all else is lost.”

“We can’t pretend things didn’t happen,” Aeleus says. “Master, I…” He bows his head. “No apology I offer can ever be enough.”

What little humor Dilan’s found fades; he drops his eyes, twisting the ends of one of his braids. “Some code we were supposed to uphold,” he mutters. 

“You’ve all separately come to me, in your own way. But truly… I am not an innocent victim, as you may suspect.” He chuckles. “You remember the man who called himself DiZ?”

“That thorn in our side?” Dilan asks, incredulous. “That was  _ you _ ?”

Even knows this was what Ansem was alluding to, but still feels somewhat surprised. Despite himself, he laughs, too. “Never pictured you as a vigilante.”

“Anger was all I had keeping me going. This shouldn’t be a surprise--we’ve all spent too much time with darkness.”

“Was it revenge you desired?” Aeleus asks.

“Revenge… death… who knows?” He shrugs. 

“We needed to be taken down,” Even says, to the floor. “Though sadly for you--all of us save Dilan were already gone before you put your plan in action.”

“I was after Xehanort-- _ Xemnas _ .” He sneers. “The fool. I sure felt  _ something _ about him when I found him. I thought it was something good. I should’ve known what was going on the moment he arrived with darkness.”

“What’s the saying--“hindsight’s 20/20”?” Dilan shifts his weight a little. 

“And I’m king no longer. I have no authority, no title… I’m merely a foolish old man, weighed down by memories of the past. Are we not all wretches?”

He’s right, but Even can still feel something like fury. “So what, are we to not even try?” he spits. “Are we just to--waste away here in this castle, sealing ourselves up and getting  _ nothing _ done? Avoiding one another like the plague--and ourselves more?”

“What do you propose we do, then, Even, since you know so much more?” Dilan hisses. “Try to assist the townsfolk we’ve terrorized? How will that be of any use?”

“Retraumatizing,” Aeleus whispers, his eyes on his knees. 

“You both have a valid point,” Ansem says. He seems unnervingly calm, but Even can see the tension in his jaw; the mask is back on. “To merely sit on our hands and do nothing would in and of itself be another atrocity. Yet… the landscape of this city has already been so scarred by what we’ve put in motion.”

“We?” Even asks, incredulous.

Ansem meets his eyes. Behind the cool diplomacy, Even can see something like fire. “You think I did not realize what could happen?” he asks. “Once you began studying the darkness, I’d heard by then it could change you, morph you into something… less. But I’ve known you all for years, handpicked you for your various specializations… I figured… no, they’re friends of mine, they should simply  _ be _ better. I could’ve stopped it--instead I chose to sit behind my title, my supposed… power, over you. In every single aspect, I’ve failed.” He hasn’t raised his voice, in fact was quite soft spoken. But when he stops speaking, the silence is especially notable. “In a way we suit one another, do we not?” He’s addressing them all, but it’s Even’s gaze he holds. “Four grown men--intelligent, educated--and all we can wreak is havoc.”

He’s had enough. “I  _ refuse _ to believe this is all we’re capable of.”

“How can you help anyone if you can’t even help yourself?” Ansem levels, and for the first time, despite the very calm cadence of his voice, can Even feel the depths of the anger the man has for him.

Very well.

Without another word, Even gets up and leaves.

Let them suffer together. They deserve it. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even offers the restoration committee a report of what the apprentices did, but it forces him to confront emotions long held at bay.

For an unknowable amount of time, Even writes. At first it is spurred on by anger; at Ansem, at the others, at himself most of all--but it seems that, once his fury cools, he can’t stop the words.

Even has never been a particularly poetic person. He tried, in the past, to keep all his journals and reports objective, clean, and to the point. Plainly worded, aside from the necessary technical terms--he himself remembered being incredibly frustrated with how wordy academics could be, so masturbatory in their writings--and neatly detailed.

These writings are clearly something else entirely. Emotion makes the pages bleed. He feels, above all, just a little deranged. He writes about guilt, about pain and remorse, about replicas who are now people, about how agonizingly raw he feels  _ despite the fact that he is still not yet fully human _ , about DNA and boys from the past and boys from his memories. About what it felt like to be married and then widowed in seemingly an instant. About how his emotions color everything, despite his best attempts to remain reasonable, logical. If he were truly logical, he would’ve been able to end all this suffering before it happened.

When his wrist aches, he changes to a keyboard. He can plainly see spelling mistakes, grammatical aberrations; but he doesn’t edit, not yet. He writes himself into a stupor and falls asleep right on the keyboard, filling twelve pages with the letter F. When he rouses, he feels splitting pains in both hands, especially his dominant; he ices them, wraps them up tightly, and forces himself to sleep on the cot.

He doesn’t feel better, but he feels strangely relieved, like he’s released some pressure. He takes mild anti-inflammatories for his wrists, and drags himself towards his actual quarters.

His phone begins to ring. At first it seems to be from Ienzo; but then he notices the small forwarding icon, indicating the boy missed a call. They’ve set their phones up like this in case of emergency; Ienzo’s the one in contact with the restoration committee. Even blinks a little. Where’s the boy--is he alright? Or is he merely distracted? He hopes for the latter.

“Hello? Who’s this?”

“Oh, finally. I got someone.” A woman’s voice. “My name is Aerith. From the committee?”

He remembers. “I’m Even--apparently Ienzo has seen fit to make me his backup point of contact.”

“None of that matters right now. Demyx lives with you, right?”

Here it goes. How wonderful it would feel to tell the others he’s right. “Yes.”

“He’s very badly hurt.”

The satisfaction turns rank. He stops dead in his tracks. “How so? I’m a doctor--spare me no technicalities.” It feels odd to identify himself so after so long.

“Yuffie--she’s on security detail--found him at the edge of town. Heartless, it seems like. They didn’t get his heart, thank  _ god _ , but they’ve got him right in the infrarenal aorta. He’s lost something like three liters of blood. I’m trying everything in my power, but--”

“Don’t get my hopes up?” he finds his own heart beating heavily. “Can I be of any assistance?”

“The wound’s already closed--it’s the shock he has to recover from. I’ll… I’ll keep you updated, okay?” She hangs up before Even can say anything else.

Just because Even wants Demyx away from Ienzo doesn’t mean he wants him  _ dead _ .

And now he has to tell the boy.

He has no idea where to find Ienzo. Not with Demyx, surely. But where? 

The lab. 

Even finds him in the hallway on the way back. “There you are. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

The boy looks limp--Even realizes his eyes are red-rimmed. He’s been crying. Of course. Well, bigger fish to fry, in the moment. “Did you call me?” he asks tiredly.

“Perhaps you do not remember, but your phone is set up to forward calls to mine if marked urgent.”

“Whatever is the matter?”

Even hesitates. If they’ve fought or broken up--but the boy deserves to know. His time of hiding things from Ienzo is long over. “It’s Demyx.”

“What about him?” he asks, sourly but not without a trace of anxiety.

“He’s been injured. Mortally.”

His eyes widen; his hands flutter at his throat. Even explains what happened. “So you mean he’s--”

“We don’t know yet. What do you know of this woman’s abilities?”

He shakes his head, his eyes empty.

“You poor boy.” He embraces him, and to his surprise feels Ienzo hug back. He smells so the same as he once did, the slightly sweet scent of ink. “I worry, too. I know how much he means to you.”

He feels Ienzo shudder against him.

“Come. You mustn’t wait through this alone.”

He escorts the boy back to his quarters. Ienzo’s breathing oddly, heavily, and his eyes are so vacant. Even wants to press, to find out exactly what happened, but Ienzo doesn’t need that. He leads the boy over to the sofa; Ienzo immediately lays on his side and curls up. Even drapes a blanket over the boy. He knows nothing he can say or do will be of any use.

After what seems to be hours--hours where Even obsessively checks his gummiphone--Ansem arrives, breathless. “Have you any news? I heard a few moments ago. I was away from the phone."

He scowls. “Oh good, you’re here. Whatever would we do.”

Ansem ignores the barb. “What happened?”

“The usual. Heartless. Only he had no means to defend himself. He did not fall to darkness, but was wounded critically. That’s all we know.”

He shakes his head. “The irony of it. To survive all that, and to get wounded by shadows.”

“So things go,” Even mumbles.

Ansem kneels in front of Ienzo, who’s still supine. When he touches him, Even notices him flinch. “Have hope. I’ll get you two some tea.”

Even grits his teeth. Once he’s out of earshot, he snarls, “The man can take better care of a houseplant than a child.”

Ienzo raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, come off it. I’ve earned a few good digs at  _ Master _ . He still does not understand people. As hard as he tries. It’s a miracle you came out as civilized as you did.” He sniffs. “Perhaps there is yet some bitterness in my new heart.” His phone started ringing; the boy’s eyes widen with something akin to panic. “Yes?”

“Even? Aerith again. Demyx is alive. He’s recovering well enough, but I had to put him to sleep for a while. The blood loss was really hard on his heart. Vitals seem to be stable, though.” Even can feel the boy’s eyes on him.

“Quite. Quite. I see. At least there’s that.”

Ienzo tenses.

“Merlin and I can bring him there. This isn’t really a good place for a person to recover. I figure you probably know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you. You’re a kind girl.” He explains it to Ienzo, but this doesn’t seem to placate him. Even chances a small smile. “If Demyx is anything, he’s resilient. I have a feeling he’ll be around to annoy us for a long time yet.”

When he’s back in his own bed, the boy is indeed in poor shape. There’s no wound, aside from a scar, and most of his blood has been replaced, but frankly he looks terrible. “So long as you don’t wake him, he’ll recover.” She too looks horrid. Even can remember his own endless days of patient care, how wearing it can be on the body. “When you take a person back from the brink of death, you have to let them sleep. But he should be okay. He’s got a will to live like I’ve never seen. Broke through several layers of sedation like it was nothing.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Even says. “Poor Ienzo has been having conniptions.”

“Are you two close?” Aerith asks him.

He hesitates. “We’re partners,” he admits in a voice hoarse from hours of disuse. Interesting word choice. 

She nods. “I’m sure this has been a harrowing experience. But we caught it in time. It’s lucky the Heartless didn’t want his heart.”

“...Lucky,” he echoes.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” Even says.

“Of course. I’m happy to help. Things have been so peaceful that this is the first major injury case I’ve seen in several weeks.” She sighs. “These things come and go in waves. Hopefully they don’t get much worse. I’ll come back tomorrow to check on him. Call me if you need to.”

“I shall. There was one thing left I wanted to discuss.” She follows him out the room, but Ienzo remains, taking the boy’s hand, an exact inverse of when he fell ill.

“What’s up?” she asks wearily. He wishes he had an ether for her, but his stores are still decimated.

“What is the medical care situation like around here? You’re not the only one, are you?”

She shrugs, tiredly.

“Oh, no. You poor girl.”

“It’s alright,” Aerith says. “Like I said, it comes and goes in waves.”

“I don’t suppose you could use… an extra pair of hands?”

Her smile seems rather composed. “That’s a very generous offer, but…”

He nods. “It’d be rather disquieting to the patients?”

"Yeah. Kind of." She exhales, smoothing her braid. "I know Ienzo says you all want to atone, and that's only right. At the same time… the darkness has scarred everyone."

"...I see."

"Perhaps there are other ways you can help," she says. "You're all scientists--and the committee is run by largely uneducated people. I'm sure you can be useful. The one thing I'm sure you can do, though…"

"Name it and consider it done."

"You could give me a list of the victims."

She says it so earnestly. Even feels his heart drop.

"We've maintained a list of the missing and presumed dead for years. It might be nice… to be able to give the surviving families closure."

"...Yes. Of course. I will make it my priority. I can give a complete statement."

"That would make Leon very happy… well. Happy as he can be, anyway."

"The truth isn't easy, but it is necessary."

She nods.

"Now go sleep, woman. You look dead on your feet. I've been looking after these miscreants for years--I can handle it from here."

"Be well, Even."

"...I shall certainly try."

He peeks into the room once more before descending back into his lair. Ienzo touches Demyx's face, once, delicately. After all this… Even finds he no longer minds it so much. The boy needs love, and it's clear his own desiccated heart is not capable of providing it--nor anyone else's, save perhaps Demyx. 

Love can be more than pain--he remembers that very distantly.

He allows himself to think about that person, slowly, unwinding the defensive chain around the memory. They too were in the sciences, the same doctoral class. They wanted to help people have children--in a roundabout way, inspiring him to consider the body, the replicas--the two of them must've discussed this for hours, the methods and the ethics, until the library closed. That person leaned over so carefully, their hair brushing Even's shoulder--and kissed him, his first.

The pregnancy wasn't necessarily intentional, ironically enough--neither was the following marriage, the proper thing to do at the time--but it was an arrangement that worked, an easy partnership. That period of his life seems long, but it was only seven years from start to finish. Gone.

Perhaps this is why, but when Even unseals his reports from the time before, he can feel the humanity, and despises the utter coldness with which he wrote about their victims. He reads their histories, their stories. He cries. How many children has he taken from their parents, spouses from their partners?

One hundred and twenty three.

From the initial, unharmed participants to the first artificial Heartless, there were one hundred and twenty three people they'd broken; one hundred Heartless.

He allows his wrists to ache as he types the report. In fact, the pain suits him. The document ends up being something like twenty pages, and he still has more to say. Even finds himself trembling, aching. This time he can feel it coming, and eases himself onto the cot before unconsciousness claims him. He wakes. Rather than bathing and sleeping, he resumes his work, trying to edit it into something reasonable. When he has a working draft of this impact statement, he sends it to Aerith, returns to his quarters, and sleeps.

He feels himself becoming… what?

He’s not well. He knows that much. But who dare he ask for help? Should he deserve it?

This is a dark place indeed, even darker because  _ this is what they put their victims through. _

He spends several days washing in and out of consciousness, hardly able to move aside from performing the most basic bodily functions.  _ Despite it all, I live, I breathe. Why? _

A knock at his door. He ignores it. His body, though underweight, seems to be dragging him down. 

A voice, Aeleus’s--“Even? Are you in there?”

He forces himself to his feet, feeling the ground pitch, likely from low blood sugar. He smooths down his hair. “Do you need something?” he asks in what he hopes is a normal voice. 

He cracks open the door and enters. “I… have not seen you in several days,” he says. “I… was worried.”

Even forces a smile. “What, about a wretch like me?”

“Yes.” He blinks. “I fear you are more volatile than ever.”

“You needn’t worry. I’ve merely been catching up on my sleep.”

Aeleus goes over to Even’s hot plate, opens up some of the cabinets above.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding you,” he says. He pours water in a pot, begins making oatmeal.

“Aeleus, I’m a grown man. I can cook for myself.”

He grunts in response. “Because you can doesn’t mean you will.”

“I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“You don’t take care of yourselves--any of you, but especially you, Master, and Ienzo.” He stirs the mixture. “Where do you think the boy gets it, Even? You’re more than your mind. I don’t think I’ve seen you looking healthy since we’ve all been back here.”

“My health doesn’t matter.”

“Yes. It does.” Aeleus turns to face him. “I’ll not have you doing anything reckless.”

Even feels vaguely caught; though why?

He starts making coffee, hands Even the steaming cup. In the winter weather, the warmth is incredibly welcome. 

“I feel so cold,” he says softly.

“I know,” Aeleus says. “But you’re thawing.”

“...A lame pun if I’ve ever heard one.”

“It’s true.” He takes a deep breath. “My heart aches too, Even.”

He feels little emotion; but his eyes are watering. “It makes no sense,” Even says slowly. “I… my heart is still a mere fragment, yet I  _ feel… _ all too much. Scientifically, it just doesn’t…”

Aeleus chuckles a little. “The heart is not bound to logic. Not even close.”

“Aeleus… you have always been… a steady presence.” He takes a drink of the coffee, centering himself with its warmth and bitterness. “I fear I am rather… becoming mentally ill.”

“You’re beginning to process. It’s healthy.” He digs in Even’s barren cabinets for sugar. “I’m afraid the oatmeal is merely plain.”

“You believe this is healthy?”

“Better than absolute numbness, absolute repression.”

Even takes a few timid spoonfuls; he finds it goes down easily. “I feel so… horridly weak. I cannot even begin to…” A bite, a drink. It’s strangely foreign. “I’m giving that nice young woman a… report of what we did. It--”

“Remorse.”

“Yes.” More wetness warms his eyes, but he can’t blink it away this time. 

“You should cry. It’s good for you.”

“I’m so humiliated, Aeleus.”

“Who will I tell?” It’s the earnestness that gets him. “We’re all in the same boat. I… myself, in my own quiet moments… I know you know what I did.”

“...What?”

“Ienzo. When he was a boy. Incapacitated him, so you could not take him.” He flinches just the slightest. 

“Oh, Aeleus--”

“His eyes were full of such trust… I handed him that cake, knowing full well--” He shudders, almost imperceptibly. “All these years, I have tried to protect him. But I could not stop Axel from--” He trails off.

“Where would I have gone?” Even asks tiredly. “Without the power of darkness, I could not have taken us outside the city limits, where we no doubt would’ve starved, or died from dehydration. Else Xehanort would have found us… and disposed of witnesses.” It takes work, to finish the beverage and meal; once he’s done, he finds himself even more exhausted.

Rather than delve more deeply into this conversation, though, Aeleus looks out his window. “It’s snowing,” he says. “Even, look.”

He crosses over to the other man. Whiteness piles onto the windowsills, the ground. “So it is.”

“I’m… afraid I must tend to the steps, salt them and whatnot,” he says. “But I will be back in a few hours with another meal.”

He takes a breath. “Thank you,” he says softly.

Aeleus takes his hand and gives it a squeeze. 

For a long while Even sits by the window, watching the slow fall so slowly. Briefly, he misses his element, his control over it; snow is much more natural than anything Vexen did. Cleansing. Gentle.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees movement. In the courtyard below his window he can see two figures in the snow; the boys. They’re throwing snowballs at one another, an endless volley. (He notes, with pleasure, that Ienzo seems to be winning.) Demyx is teaching him how to play; something they never did. With another swell of warmth, he notices Aeleus join in, pelting the two further. 

He smiles a little. He realizes the boy is going to be fine; Demyx truly does care for him.

He bathes, for the first time in days, is able to give Aeleus a meal in turn, though it is flavorless and bland. He still lacks intellectual sharpness, but he’ll settle for simple functionality after all this. 

Even begins to pull the shards of himself together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even's spouse was nonbinary and used they/them pronouns.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite Even's efforts, Ienzo makes a choice which ripples across the castle.

His peace, incredibly tenuous, does not last long.

He receives a call midmorning the next day, from Ienzo. “Even. I need help.” His voice sounds shattered.

“Whatever is the matter?”

“It’s Demyx--”

Even takes a quick breath. “Is he hurt?” He seems to have recovered from that wound, but that means nothing.

Ienzo’s voice is full of glass. “Not physically.”

Oh. Of course. Now that they’re bonded… he may have very well become fully human. And his memories were only a hair’s breadth away. “I think I understand. I’m on my way.” He goes to his lab, grabs a few different things which may be of help. 

He finds them in the study room which seems to be their favorite haunt. Despite himself, he feels a concern for the boy--is it for what this implies about his own wellbeing? 

“What is it? What’s happened?”

Ienzo has the boy on the ground. The boy’s face is contorted in pain; he’s breathing hard and twitching a little. Ienzo’s face is drawn. “I’m not really sure--he--this score… he insisted it was his, and then he went into this weird trance, and I think he’s remembering  _ something _ . Even, I don’t know.”

Even catches sight of this supposed score. At a glance, he can tell it’s ancient; much like the young man on the floor. He crouches next to him and begins checking his vitals. The boy’s heart is positively racing.  _ The blood loss was really hard on his heart. _ “He’s clearly in pain, and cannot maintain a heart rate that high for very long.” He sedates the boy, and finally Demyx settles into it, his expression slackening, his heart rate beginning to lower to something livable. 

The boy’s memories must be coming back. The score was a trigger. If he is as emotionally fragile as Even--and is reliving all that war trauma--he might not pull through, his new heart might break.

“You know what this is, don’t you?” Ienzo asks.

He looks back at the score again. It doesn’t surprise him Demyx hasn’t told Ienzo. Where to even begin? Then again, does Ienzo need to deal with yet more lies of omission? “It was not my secret to share.”

“Even,” Ienzo says, his voice sharp and, if he’s reading this right,  _ afraid. _

“Xehanort had more than one trump card up his sleeve.” He sighs.“Didn’t you find it strange how we all arrived in groups? Us apprentices with Lea and Isa, and then the four neophytes. There was some degree of time between each arrival, but not nearly enough to justify what were were told. If we were to believe it, that humanoid Nobodies were rare, shouldn’t it have taken a lot longer to find the original thirteen?” He brushes his hair out of his face. “I’m not sure how exactly, but Xehanort pulled four Keyblade wielders from the age of fairy tales and made them Nobodies. Obfuscated their memories too, from the looks of things. I have no idea why it is he did this. But Xemnas told them at some point before the war, and Demyx asked me to investigate. I’m guessing this connection between you two only furthered his progress to humanity, and that when presented with a trigger, the memories came back.”

Ienzo looks down at him, his expression pinched. “So it’s true then.”

Even nods. “...Yes. It’s true. I’ve studied his DNA myself. You positively would not believe it, Ienzo--”

Something like hurt crosses his face. “And you didn’t think it prudent to ever mention this to me?”

“Would it have changed your mind?”

He drops his eyes. “No.”

“Precisely. I assure you he hasn’t  _ experienced  _ that passage of time.”

“...He said he’d remembered something from his past. I did not think it was _ this. _ So that means he’s really a--” He bites his lip.

“Yes.” He smiles sadly. “I worked so hard to make replicas who could wield Keyblades, and we had four wielders right under our noses.”

“But will he be all right?”

No point lying any longer. “Hard to say. All of those memories, some doubtless very gruesome and traumatic, his heart just healing… we must be patient.”

Again, they maneuver him to his bed, as gently as possible. Even starts him on fluids, another dose of the sedative. They can’t afford to have his heart rate spike. In all this, and despite his own nursing training, Ienzo doesn’t help; his expression is empty, horrified. He’s crying, though soundlessly. Even takes him away, makes him drink some tea. 

“It is… a lot to process,” Even says. “But we’ve seen Roxas and Xion in spells like these and they both came out on the other side. Have faith.” He doesn’t mention that the two had considerably fewer memories to recover. This will not help Ienzo. Then again, Even isn’t sure what will. 

In a voice that breaks Even’s heart, he asks, “Why is healing so dangerous?”

Question of the century. “It’s only as dangerous as we delude ourselves,” Even says finally. “Unfortunately, the spell he was under was a strong one.”

“Do you think he’ll be different?”

He thinks about it, about Ienzo’s own dramatic transformation once he returned to himself. This gentle boy is nothing like his cruel Nobody; though likely that took, and is taking, work. “Perhaps,” he says. “But no different than you yourself are. But the boy loves you, Ienzo. You can tell by the way he looks at you. I don’t think that will change.”

He drops his eyes. “Is it typical, to feel this amount of shock?”

He reaches out to feel Ienzo’s temperature. Clammy. “Like many such reactions, it’s a stress response.”

He speaks haltingly. “It is so… strange. With all that’s happened in the past month or so, I find myself wondering if it is good to allow such vulnerability.” 

This is the most candid Ienzo’s been with him yet, the closest insight Even’s had to his emotions. 

The last thing the boy needs is to close himself off more. “I admit the situations have been… extreme.” Even flinches. “But we’ve spent long enough closing our hearts and minds off to others, don’t you think?”

This doesn’t provide the comfort he thought. “You’re one to talk,” he says in a sharp voice. “You’ve been holed up in your lab all day every day, barely speaking to anyone. You seem to be the most hesitant of us all to accept humanity. Atonement aside.”

Thing is, he’s right. “I don’t deny it. But I have not spent my time experimenting.”

“What are you doing, then?” He looks exhausted now.

“Writing. Reflecting, mostly. Things always were the most tangible to me when they were on paper. If I can record my thoughts as data, perhaps I can make sense of them.”

His eyes soften just a little. “Is it working?”

Even can’t believe it; a real conversation. “Heavens, no. But if I do not tread these tides of emotion, then I am more foolish than I thought.”

He cants his head slightly. “What is it you feel?” 

“Mostly--remorse--” He admits. He shakes his head. “As scientists, one of our duties is upholding a moral code. Needless to say, we broke it. Xehanort was manipulative, yes, but while you were a child, I was an educated man who should have known better. I did know better. But I figured the gains I made would offset the costs. They have not. And now I want to use my skills for the greater good.” But how?

“Do you think the replicas could have anything to do with that?” He becomes yet more earnest.

He still has those samples needing analysis, sitting quietly in the freezer. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.” But--what right does he have to create life, anymore? Isn’t it unnatural? A query to ponder over later--back to the matter at hand, the real, tangible human sitting across from him. He gathers the rest of his remaining strength and looks Ienzo in the eye. “I must apologize to you, Ienzo.”

He blinks. “Even--”

“We can blame Ansem’s utter lack of paternal instinct all we want, but ultimately it is my fault that this all happened to you.” He thinks of his foolhardy plan to escape; even after that there were opportunities. “I should have understood Xehanort’s machinations and taken you out of that mess, but I was selfishly nearsighted. Things are always clearer in retrospect. Are they not? You deserved a normal childhood, a normal adolescence, and got anything but. And years of fear and trauma on top of it.” Who knew where Ienzo might have gone, otherwise? Without all this holding him back?

The boy exhales. “I forgive you,” he says. 

He can’t mean that. There’s no way. But there’s no dishonesty in his face, his body language. A warmth wells in him, something bittersweet. Is it possible to mend their bond? Or is this just another example of Ienzo’s newfound “niceness”? “You’re a kind young man,” Even says. “I will try to make this up to you.” He stands. “I’m off to do some reading. There might be a better way for me to help Demyx after all.” He squeezes the boy’s shoulder.

And retreats to his work.

He wonders if his replicas might be of use once more. The screen seems piercingly bright when he cracks open the laptop.

It’s actually been a while since he’s read the real journals. He starts from the most recent, begins working his way back, skimming over all the biological nonsense, towards the more metaphysical.

_ There’s a question how to give No. i memories, _ he reads.  _ It’s going to need them, to carry through--if we hope to make its “heart” worthy of a “Keyblade”, it’s going to need a sense of self, a certain nobility. How to do this while also keeping it under our control? _

Oh, Vexen. You naive dunce.

The replica reports aren’t much use. Xion did all the work on her memories herself, almost spontaneously. There has to be something he can do to wavebreak the tide, so to speak; not just for Demyx, but for everyone. He storms to the library, digging for volumes, his hands trembling. In a sort of desperation, he even seeks fairy tales. The boy basically  _ is _ one. But it’s all magic, and Even has no magic--

He feels helpless. If he fails Demyx, he fails Ienzo. And he can’t do that.

Maybe sleep will give him some clarity?

Some hope.

He’s just drifting when he hears the door creak open. Without thinking, he grabs the scalpel on the table next to him. “Who’s there?” He blinks, his vision focusing. “Oh… Ienzo? Is something wrong? Is it Demyx?”

“No, he’s still stable--it’s fine. It can wait until morning.” His tone is devoid of feeling.

“Clearly not, if you felt the need to come to me at this godforsaken hour. Whatever is the matter?”

He thinks for a moment. Then, “Do you think it’s possible to regain our powers?”

Of course--with Zexion’s power of illusion, and therefore memory, he  _ might _ be able to shake this horrid spell, or at least find some way to help. But… humans simply aren’t  _ meant _ to have these powers, otherwise they would’ve had them already, yes? He’s read something about this… he tries to remember. Won’t the use put yet more undue strain on Ienzo’s body? “Why on earth would you want that?”

“Illusion let me see memories. If I can gain control over it, maybe I can help purge the darkness in the basement and help whoever’s stuck down there find peace.” He bites his lip. “Demyx is likely to be shaken up. Perhaps I can help him too. If I can make order of his memories, perhaps he will wake up without too much damage to his heart.”

Naturally Ienzo will be the best one to handle this-- _ if _ he can control those powers. But the nature of such power is that it  _ is _ unnatural. It’s not supposed to exist. In their studies, the calculated entropy alone-- “Have you even tried casting a spell?”

“Once,” Ienzo says. “It… did not go well. I had a terrible migraine. I was wondering if you might have some sort of medicine that might let me work through the pain.”

Even darts over to his bookshelf, seeking a certain volume, finding it finally. “You see… the thing is… such elemental power comes from the will, typically as a manifestation of some psychological trait or another. Hence why, in the absence of a heart, we were able to use it as Nobodies. But now that you are human… you’ve no need for such defense mechanism. Your being is whole. Trying to invoke it could be disastrous. The entropy of it alone would, in the best possible scenario, induce sleep.” His heart and will would fight for control over his body, destabilize him… 

“Sleep?” the boy asks.

“Sleep akin to death,” Even says darkly. “They must lie so closely together. And you must hope you find the strength, fast enough, to save your life before you’re claimed by the other side. Ienzo.” His turns towards the boy beseechingly. “Would the risk be worth it? Is there not another way you can atone?”

“What about the reward?” he asks instantly.

“Ienzo--”

“Please, Even. I’ll be careful.” His eyes show that his mind is made up. Regardless of whether or not Even helps him, he’s made his decision.

Even can’t make this boy’s choices for him anymore. If he were ever able to. He crosses over to a cabinet, considers what’s left of his store, what’s still good. He finds one of the only painkillers he has which can also allow the boy to remain lucid. “Take half of one of these,” he says sternly. “You’ll feel no pain. But should your nose start bleeding, drop everything instantly and rest.”

“Is that a side effect?”

“No. But that’ll be entropy wreaking havoc on your body.” Even presses the bottle into his hand. “Let me watch over you.”

He looks at the pills. “I think this is something I have to do on my own.”

“You children always think you know what’s best. Fine. But if you do not text me within  _ three hours _ I will hunt you down.”

He nods. For just a second, Even senses a kinship between them again. “Very well. Thank you, Even. This means a lot to me.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

* * *

As the timer ticks down… Even frets, and paces. He prepares a kit, should this all go poorly, with fluids and epinephrine and the like. His own anxiety is spiking. But if he were in the same shoes, wouldn't he do everything in his power to save his dear one? Imagine the guilt otherwise?

He can't breathe.  _ Panicking will be no use. You must be calm. Focused. The boy has always been more than he seems. If anyone can do this, it's Ienzo. _

He's still not prepared when it happens. When he hears the gummiphone, and sees it's Ienzo, the relief hangs heavily in him. But the voice that speaks isn't his, it's Demyx, jagged and full of razors--"I need help. Even, I need--” 

“Demyx? How long have you been conscious?”

“I think Ienzo’s dying and I don’t know how to stop it.”

_ Dying.  _ The word echoes heavily, and so does the further gut punch-- _ I knew it. _ This is his fault, he should've fought Ienzo harder. “I’m coming. Stay on the line. Put it on speakerphone, do you know how to do that? What happened?"

Demyx sobs. "He found me. In my memory. I don’t know how, but he--he said he wasn’t supposed to have that power."

Even grabs his kit, already on the move. He swears. "No. He isn’t. There’s a reason humans don’t control the elements willy-nilly. What are the symptoms?" How bad did the boy let it get?

"He’s having trouble breathing. His pulse is really fucked up. His nose is bleeding and it seems like he’s in a lot of pain--” He gasps out another sob. "I'm sorry, Even."

His legs feel barely there as he runs. "I know you didn't ask for this."

"Why is this happening?"

The words feel divorced from him. His fingers fly across the screen--he needs more than mere medicine. "Power like that comes from the will. It can only exist without the presence of a fully realized heart--otherwise, it’s too much power. Hence why Nobodies can use it as a defense mechanism. At that point, entropy starts wreaking havoc on the body. Your cells literally start to break down and melt. The will to live starts to wear down." He has no doubt that the boy overextended himself. His fingers feel numb as he reaches out to that woman, the one who healed Demyx. If she could fix that, she may be the only one to fix this.

Demyx's breath catches. "Ienzo…"

Admittedly, it's a relief that the boy cares so much for him. “I’ve messaged Aerith. I don’t think my skills are enough. We must keep him alive until then.” His heart is beating so fast.  _ You don’t have time to panic, you old fool. Get it together. Demyx can do all the suffering for both of us. _

Distantly, tinnily, he hears, “Don’t do this. Please don’t do this.”

“Demyx?” he prompts, another thrill of panic making his vision sheeny.

“He’s not breathing.”

“I need you to start doing compressions. Hard. We can fix broken ribs.” He’s almost there. Why did he let himself get so physically weak? 

“Why would you do this?” the boy asks. “Why didn’t you let me drown?”

He’s there. Finally. He throws the door open. He sees Ienzo on Demyx’s bed, more corpse at this point than boy, soaked again in blood from his nose, and Demyx frantically trying to do compressions. He pulls the syringe of epinephrine from his bag, sticks the boy. Demyx is sobbing, a weirdly animal sound. Without machinery or magic, Even has no way of truly assessing Ienzo’s condition. He barely has a pulse. “Keep doing what you’re doing,” he says to Demyx as gently as possible. “If you’re tired I can--” But he can tell he’s talking to a wall. The younger man isn’t responding.

Aerith arrives at last. He sees something like horror in her green eyes before a mask settles into place.

“You should go,” Even tells Demyx. The last thing they need is for him to have this mental breakdown right here.

“I’m not leaving him.”

“You are in far too much distress to be a comfort to him.”

“But what if he--”

Even seizes him by the arm and pushes him. He slinks towards the door, trembling all over; Aerith whispers spells, ancient old words. “What happened?” she asks after a moment.

Even explains as quickly as possible. 

“I can try to treat the body,” she says, though her teeth. “But if his will is worn down, then--”

“Do you think it is?”

“Oh, it is,” she says. “I use… when I heal, I use people’s own energies, their auras, which is basically the physical version of a will. I can barely feel anything, Even.”

He feels himself go numb. “Is this a fool’s errand, then?”

“Like I said. I’ll try my best. If it would be more of a comfort you could leave too--”

“I will not.”

For a moment, the sharpness of his tone causes her head to snap up; she quickly glances back down. “Can you connect the port line you’ve started to the blood replacement I brought?” 

He does what the woman asks, feeling so helpless. “Would it break your concentration, to tell me what’s going on?”

She takes a quick breath. She holds her hands over him, and while it looks like she’s not doing much, Even can see the strain the magic is having. “It’s the internal bleeding that’s the problem,” she mumbles. “Between that, and the nosebleed, he’s lost something like three liters--and he’s a small man. A lot of his organs have failed, and some are bleeding too. Feels like the power must’ve started eating them. Not to mention his heart. It feels like it hasn’t been beating, though I know Demyx was doing good compressions--two of his ribs are broken. He must’ve entered something like sleep to stay alive while he used his powers. Fixing it is going to take time--time I’m not sure he has.” She glances up. “But I’ll try my best.”

“Is there anything I can…” Ienzo’s in more trouble, and he can’t do a single thing except watch.

“Ethers, if you have them. I’m going to need them.”

Numbly, Even nods, and leaves the room. Demyx sits curled next to the door frame, his hands bloody from the compressions, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. “...Boy?” Even asks softly.

He doesn’t respond. Likely he can’t.

He heads back towards his lab, spots Aeleus. At least one thing can be done. 

The other man takes in his bedraggled appearance, the spots of blood on his white coat. “Even?” he asks.

“Aeleus, I need you to do something for me--likely several. You need to look after Demyx. He’s in shock. I’m not sure what he might do. I’m afraid Ienzo’s done something foolish in order to save him.” He explains about Demyx’s past, Ienzo’s condition. “I need to be with him, and help that woman how I can. Do not let Demyx in--I don’t care what you have to do to the boy. Nor Ansem, should he approach. Understand?”

Fear breaks his stoic expression. “Of course.”

Even feels himself slipping, adrenaline and panic making him weak and clumsy. He gathers what supplies he has for the healer, and then he returns. “Anything?” he asks her.

“He’s fighting. But he’s so tired,” Aerith explains. “Still unstable. I’m working on it.”

So Even waits. He watches her hands twist and gesture in foreign spells, offers her ethers, water, cloths for the sweat on her face. Mostly he just tries to keep it together, to not allow himself to consider what might happen if Ienzo doesn’t pull through. After what must be hours… she drops her hands, breathing hard. Even begins bracing himself. “Stable,” she says quietly. “The bleeding’s under control. We should probably bring him somewhere he can recover in the long term.”

“...Just pick him up?”

“His body’s rebounding well… that’s not what I’m worried about.” 

The door slits open--Even sees Dilan’s face, his own panic mirrored back at him. “What on earth is going on--”

“You moron, we don’t need your meddling right now--”

“Can he carry him?” Aerith asks. 

“I’m sure I can,” Dilan says. “But what--”

Even sighs. And explains. 

“But why would Ienzo do this?” he asks. “He never--”

“I will not have you fret,” Even snaps. “Let’s get him moved.”

Dilan approaches Ienzo slowly. Despite the transfusion, he still looks deathly pale. As carefully as possible, he lifts him. They settle him back into his own bed; Even dresses him in something clean. He knows the boy is unaware of everything, but still is embarrassed for him anyway. Washes the blood off his face. Tucks him in. Aerith starts another transfusion.

“You said you’re not worried about his body,” he says, suddenly processing what was heard earlier. 

She shakes her head. “Now that the damage is largely healed,” she says. “It’s his will to live--healthy body or not, if he’s weakened it, there’s no animating force behind him. It must’ve taken energy to… do what he did. He must’ve essentially lent Demyx his own, to get him out of the memories. There are a… few things I can try, to gauge how bad it is. He’s hanging on now. That’s the important thing.” She looks up. There are bruise-colored circles under her eyes. “Is he a… determined person?”

“...Stubborn to a fault,” Even admits. “How do you think he got in this mess? First he didn’t listen to me about…  _ falling in _ with that boy, and then he wouldn’t let me monitor him.”

She sighs. “Good. That’s good. It might make all the difference. You should go tell your family.”

It’s the word choice that startles him. “I’m sure Dilan’s doing nothing but making them worry.” But before he can move, there’s a gentle knock. 

Ansem, exhausted and haggard. “My poor boy…”

Even scowls. “I thought I told Aeleus to keep you away from here.”

“Aeleus is preoccupied.”

“He doesn’t need more stress.”

“Even, I’ve missed most of the horrific events in Ienzo’s life. The least I can do is be present now.”

“And he definitely doesn’t need you two squabbling,” Aerith says firmly. “Stay, or go, I don’t care, but what Ienzo needs is peace. If it’s something this deeply metaphysical, he’ll definitely sense the difference.”

Ansem nods and approaches the boy, sitting at his feet.

Very well. Let Even do all the heavy lifting. Like he always does.

He leaves. He can feel he’s shaking. If Ienzo passes on… what then?

_ What would he possibly have left? _

He finds the other three in the sitting room; Demyx wrapped in a blanket, Aeleus gently consoling him; Dilan sits with his head in his hands. “He’s stable,” he explains when the three of them look up. “Aerith is with him now.”

“What exactly happened?” Dilan asks. “Demyx said something about overextending his power.”

“As far as I can tell--and it’s still early--that’s the case.” He clutches the back of a chair. “We’re not meant to truly have access to our elemental power. It’s an essence of the self, a projection in the absence of a heart--weapons are another mystery. By trying to regain it, however lightly, the entropy of a Nobody’s nonexistence began to eat away at his organs. Particularly his heart.”

“...The organ?” Demyx asks. It’s the first Even’s heard him speak since. His voice is odd, hollow. “Or--”

“We’re not sure how his metaphysical heart has been affected. But I have to learn to relinquish control when something’s out of my hands… and it is. Aerith is healing the physical damage. He’s asleep right now. Ansem is with him too.” He meets Demyx’s eyes. “Might I have a word with you?”

The boy’s eyes widen a little in fear, but he follows Even, taking the blanket with him. He leads the boy to his quarters, gestures for him to sit. “Can I get you some tea? Something to eat?”

“I’m not hungry.” Hollow and raw.

“You’re going to need your strength.” There’s not much of anything in his cabinets, just some likely stale biscuits in a tin. He places them on the coffee table in front of the boy, but he doesn’t take any. He has no idea how to help. If Ienzo has saved Demyx’s life, the least he can do is be of use. It’s what the boy would want. He starts taking his vitals. “Slight fever. Blood pressure low. Eat something. It’ll help. We should probably try to get some more caffeine into your system too.” Demyx watches him warily. Something looks different about the boy, something Even can’t place his finger on.

“Did you lie to Aeleus and Dilan?”

“Not technically.” He takes off the stained coat, sits. He’s exhausted. “I need to gather more information about the situation. And considering the extreme… delicacy of the situation, I figured you’d rather have some privacy.”

He shivers and won’t make eye contact. “How is Ienzo really?”

“The picture I have is not clear.” He puts a hand to his splitting head. “As I said, use of his power wrought havoc on his internal organs. There’s a good deal of internal bleeding, as well as kidney failure. But the most concerning of these things was his heart. I’m not sure yet for how long or when, but use of his power stopped it from beating. Not… death, exactly, but a type of sleep very near it. Something impossible to maintain without intervention. So, naturally, once he tried to wake back up, he went into shock.” Even pauses. Now that he’s coming down himself, his perception is improving. The boy  _ is _ different. His eyes were never that deep shade of green. “Have your eyes always been so green, or am I just getting old?”

Demyx stares at him blankly.

“Can you tell me what you recall from earlier yesterday afternoon? Do you remember anything?”

He sighs. It’s a heavy sound. “That’s putting it mildly,” he says. He explains that they’d been working, that he’d realized the ancient score was his. “I just… started remembering. Everything about my life then started coming back, wave after wave after wave. There was just so much pain. I felt like I couldn’t escape it. I  _ couldn’t _ . And then… well I don’t know how. But he got into my head, literally, and dragged me out of the memory. And then I woke up.”

It’s all starting to click. “...Fascinating,” Even mumbles. “Zexion always could use the memories of others to create illusions. But to actively be able to alter them…” He clucks his tongue. “If he’s closely bonded to you, it makes sense that he was able to do so. Naminé was only able to alter memories of those in and around Sora. His power must have functioned similarly.”

“He should have left me there,” Demyx whispers.

“I believe his friendship with Sora has given him something of a hero complex.” He uncrosses his legs. “Nonetheless, you deserve to live too. I have been too harsh with you. I always have.”

“I wasn’t exactly a good person then.”

The admission surprises him. Demyx always had a sort of cockiness to him in the past. To have him out here so nakedly; is this the memories giving him clarity? Or is it simple change? If Even were not so shocked, he would find it fascinating. “No worse, I’m sure, than I. The complex dynamics of the Organization involved quite a lot of groupthink. It was easy to blame you as the source of our problems. The truth is more nuanced than that.”

“The Organization was all I knew at the time.” He tightens the blanket around his shoulders. “I still wanted to be free. But I didn’t want it enough to make the effort of fighting worth it. So I made do.”

“As one does.” He can’t help but see himself in this story, his wayward attempts at survival doing nothing more than causing himself and Ienzo years of trauma. 

“It’s okay.” Demyx sighs. “Dilan and I agreed to start over. Maybe you and me should do the same.”

Even nods. “Second chances involve quite a lot of forgiveness,” he says. “But perhaps we all have more common ground than we think.”

This said, the boy’s eyes settle back into the middle distance. He  _ is _ different; Even can just feel it. More intense. More serious, and vulnerable. He thought it was the lighting at first, but the boy’s hair has changed, all the remaining blonde gone. Changed like a replica when it gets a heart, though the boy’s body is organic. He holds himself a little straighter.

So he’s done it, then. Completed his reformation. Something similar must be coming towards Even in the coming weeks and months. Something that may be worth studying--at the very least, so he can brace himself, fall apart as little as possible. Not to mention, the richness of what Demyx might know of such old times, times that were hardly written about. Even feels a small thrill despite himself. “I understand you’re still in shock, and naturally are very worried. But will you tell me about your past? I can only imagine what this must all be like for you.”

“Shock is right. I feel numb.” He sounds it.

“Perhaps you should get some rest,” Even suggests.

Demyx shakes his head. “I want to see him.”

How can this traumatized boy offer Ienzo the peace he needs? Not when he himself is so uncertain. “I don’t know if that is necessarily the best for either of you at the moment. Believe me. We will keep an eye on him. Sleep might help you get some clarity.”

“What I’d like to do is take a bath. I’m so cold.”

“Then by all means.”

Demyx leaves without so much as casting a backwards glance in his direction. He hasn’t eaten, Even realizes.

He does not have the strength to care for the two boys and himself at once.

Even sinks into bed. He can feel wetness in his own eyes. 

_ Don’t do this, Ienzo. Don’t give up. Please. _

But is he praying for the boy’s sake, or his own?

No; Even does not matter. Ienzo deserves a full and happy life. He still has so much left ahead of him; unlike the rest of them, he can bounce back, can be forgiven for his mistakes (though are they really his own?). 

Even can’t sleep. He is numb, tired. He forces himself up. Aerith and Demyx both need feeding. But he finds that Aeleus has already cooked. “The least I can do,” he says softly. “Even… you look positively horrid.”

“I… know why Ienzo did what he did,” he says. “If it were me… if I could save the person most important… I… like to think I would’ve.”  _ I wish I could do it now. _

“It makes it no easier,” Aeleus says, with a nod. “You should eat as well.”

“Yes.” Aeleus is a decent enough cook, but the soup tastes like nothing. “Any word?”

“Nothing yet. She hasn’t left that room but to ask for some water.”

“The girl needs food. It’s a lot of magic.” He doesn’t sound like himself. “I’ll get her.”

“Even?”

Wearily, he turns.

“You can be upset about this,” Aeleus says. “I know it must… evoke painful memories.”

Even chuckles. “What doesn’t, these days,” he admits. 

Aerith is still crouched by Ienzo. “His body is still alive,” she says when she sees him. “I’m afraid… he’s very deeply asleep.”

“More than on a physical level, I assume,” Even says.

“Well, yes. The will’s worn down, but still here. It needs to rest, to restore itself. Kind of like… putting itself into power-saver mode. Ergo, Ienzo can’t move.”

“Can the boy recover from it?”

“I… believe so,” she admits. “But I honestly have no idea how long it will take. Weeks? Months? I’ve never seen something like this before.”

“I can care for a sleeping child. I’ve done it before.”

She nods, slowly. “I’ll come back later to check on him.”

“Aeleus has made dinner. I insist you go get some. You look peaked.”

“Thank you… saves me the embarrassment of asking.” She smiles a little. 

“I… can’t thank you enough. If it were only me…”

Aerith nods. “It’s my duty. My pleasure.” She leaves.

While he’s at it, he rouses Demyx, too, who is just as surly about eating until Even tells him Aerith’s there. Both children fed… he returns to the scene of the crime.

Ienzo sleeps.

Much like that night all those years ago, he’s breathing much too deeply and evenly, not so much as twitching. It’s not natural sleep in that regard. Keeping the body breathing and the heart beating is all his will can manage. He sits next to the boy. He’s positive Ienzo can’t hear him, unlike a normal coma patient; but he still speaks anyway.  _ Science is reasonable; scientists are human. _ “He’s alright, you know,” Even says to him. “But I’m afraid I’m going to give you a stern talking-to concerning your self worth, when you wake.” He brushes the boy’s hair out of his eyes. His skin is a little feverish. “Do not… scare me like that again.” He squeezes Ienzo’s hand gently.

And lets him sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ienzo sleeps, Even ponders over his next steps, and forms an unexpected friendship with Demyx.

Even returns to his quarters. He knows he needs sleep, but he feels too wired, and he doesn’t want to take something lest they need him in the middle of the night. He’s soaking his lab coat in bleach, but he’s not optimistic. Instead, he sits darning a hole in an old one he found. 

He seems Demyx poke his face in the cracked door. “Something the matter?”

“That depends.” Demyx sighs. “Do you think it’s possible for me to regain my sitar? Or do you think it would hurt me like it did Ienzo?”

Already so much more resolved. Curious. “Truthfully? I think that you will likely be fine. Lea can wield two weapons simultaneously--though why that miscreant needs to be doubly dangerous I have no idea.”

“How do I do it?”

He blinks. It still feels so odd to see the different color. “I’m afraid in that case I’m out of my depths. You might try giving one of them a call. I’m sure Ienzo would not mind if you used his gummiphone in his absence.”

“Sure. Thanks.” He turns to leave.

He bites the bullet. “Demyx? Could I perchance… take a look at it?”

“At what?”

What else? “The Keyblade,” he says slowly. He never really got to study Roxas’s--or Xion’s, for that matter, despite creating it in a roundabout way. Funny. Demyx was once a thorn in his side; now he’s a living relic. 

He raises an eyebrow. “I mean I haven’t consciously summoned it in literally hundreds of years.”

“I have a feeling you’ll be able to.” Now that the boy is human… and feeling remorse… he may very well be worthy again.

The boy holds out his hands. With a flash… there it is.

It’s a slight, delicate blade; the hilt an inverse sort of heart. Even notices the coloring, light and dark blue. “...Fascinating,” Even mumbles. “Lea’s chakrams were incorporated into his blade as well.” He leans forward a little to get a better look. 

Demyx draws it away. “Don’t! I’m not going to risk passing this on.”

...And how would that be done? “It’s not a virus.”

“It sorta is,” he says, frustratingly vaguely.

“As if I would ever be  _ worthy _ . Very well. If it soothes your neuroses.”

The boy holds it protectively, and, Even notes, with something like disgust; he looks like he’s smelled something bad. 

“Have you had it long?”

“Literally?”

Even crosses his arms. “You do realize that you simply  _traveled_ through time, yes? You’re still only twenty-two. A babe.”

He shrugs. “Since I was five. More or less. That’s just how it was then.”

Paydirt. “How  _ what _ was?”

He sighs. The weapon vanishes. “I hope you got time.”

“For this, I will make the time.”

He sits the boy down, starts a recording. Demyx bristles a little when Even does this, but says nothing. “I hope you do not mind that I am recording this. I assure you any we can redact any exceedingly personal information. This is for my edification only. I would never dream of letting it fall into unsavory hands.”

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“Can you state your name and age in its entirety?”

He nods, and then as though embarrassed, gives Even his old name.

“That’s your name? That’s not what I thought.”

“Yeah, well. It seems like I’m full of surprises. I don’t care who knows it, but it doesn’t seem to fit right anymore. You know?”

“I suppose. So. Can you tell me what you remember, as far back as you can, as comfortably as you can?”

“I’ll try.”

When Even looks back at the recording later, it’s only about half an hour; but it seems like he and Demyx were in that room for much longer. Demyx tells him the story slowly, about his own impoverished beginnings, about a time when Keyblade wielding was almost guaranteed, about complex family dynamics and Foretellers, about child warriors being exploited. They were throwing these kids in and out of time ( _ how _ ?) on missions to destroy Heartless, collect light. Not too much unlike the Organization, Even notes. Xehanort must have known all this. But if they were letting these kids time travel somehow, far enough into the future where they would naturally be dead… it defies logic. But it allows Demyx to be sitting here, now.

_ Doesn’t everything? _

But rather than how darkness corrupted the apprentices,  _ light _ seemed to corrupt these children; they fought over it, began killing each other, as well as one another’s pets (Chirithys?). Even remembers the old fairy tales--people used to fight over the light, and it’s this fight that begat darkness, which begat the World’s fracture.

Demyx has lived through all that.

He seems unaware of all this, of the implications of it. He tells Even instead about unions, Keyblade groups, a specialized sect called Dandelions. He tells him about a war.

It’s around then the gravity of everything seems to be setting in. Demyx’s voice becomes more and more halting as he describes the war, people ( _ children _ ) dying. Finally he breaks down. Even can’t offer him much comfort other than a glass of water, something to dry his eyes, a hand to hold. 

Their history was so much more human than he could’ve thought, more than the sing-songy fairy tales they’d all been taught. They had repercussions.

But if it were the second set of Foretellers, and not Xehanort, who wiped the boy’s memory, how on earth did it return? Was just the trigger enough? Is it all sheer coincidence?

Xemnas found Demyx, wounded, reeling, and dying in this graveyard. Of course the boy begat a Nobody--but the Nobody, without memories or a Keyblade, was essentially useless, trauma warping his personality radically. 

“Goodness gracious,” he mutters, wanting a stronger word. “This is a window to our history.”

Cried out, he’s exhausted. “Yours, maybe.”

“You simply must tell me more about these Foretellers. How is this organization structured? What was their training regimen like? Who was their leader--did they have a leader?”

“It's a lot to talk about." Flat. Lifeless. Even remembers the boy is human, not some kind of walking encyclopedia.

He pauses the recording. “I suppose you’re right. Of course you must be very tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I would say so.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” Even says. “I realize… it is not easy. Especially given our past relationship.”

“Like you said. Forgiveness.”

He nods. But how has Even earned Demyx's forgiveness? “Would you like something to help you sleep?”

“I think I’ll be okay. But thanks.”

He’s not sure what else to say, so he tries for humor. “Well. Don’t get too used to it.”

Demyx purses his lips. “Wake me up if anything changes with Ienzo,” he says. “Please.”

“You can be sure of it.”

He watches the boy go. He’s trembling all over himself, weak. He thought hearing about the past would be illuminating; instead he feels something of a voyeur. This oral history is probably one of the only truths they have. But knowing he’s the one who’s taken it does not give him a sense of pride. Rather, he feels keenly the weight of responsibility. Demyx likely does not want to live being gawked at, questioned. But he’s never had such insight before to the past.

For some reason Even thought that, prior to the Fracture, the World was something utopian. But people starving in the streets? Greed and exploitation running rampant? Maybe they did not yet have literal darkness, but it still lived in the hearts of men. Waiting.

Forever polluting.

He falls asleep for a few hours, restlessly. He bathes, forces himself to eat. He checks in on Ienzo, finds everything still steady and vital. He knows one thing he may be able to do.

Even finds the EEG machine broken and bashed in inside of a closet. He carries it back upstairs, seeking Dilan--the man was always better with his hands. He runs instead into Ansem. He’s in no mood. “Have you seen Dilan?” he asks instead.

“He’s keeping Demyx preoccupied. For the best, I suppose. What are you doing with that?”

“Well--it would be prudent to try to monitor Ienzo’s neural activity,” he says. “But like everything else in this godforsaken castle, it too needs repairs.”

Ansem appraises the machine in Even’s arms. “I may be able to help you,” he says. “Come with me.”

The lab is colder than everywhere else, despite the computer. Even shudders. 

“I admit I did not miss these winters,” Ansem says. He takes the screen and coil of wires and sets it down, then plugs it into the console. “I’ll do a diagnostic. It’ll only take a moment.”

They both wait, saying nothing, refusing to make eye contact.

“This… does not surprise me a whit,” Ansem admits.

“What? That everything’s broken?”

“That the boy would do this,” he says. “I’m afraid he gets that from you.”

Even scoffs. 

“It’s true. You were always… in your own way… putting everything else above yourself--especially those you cared for. Once Ienzo arrived--I cannot recall one single touchpoint where the boy was not a priority.”

“Children have no power here,” he says softly. “I… now this must be kept in confidence.”

“Always,” Ansem says.

“Demyx told me the story of his past. I said I would not share the details--and I won’t, without his permission. But… I’m afraid to say the past was no different. The people in charge, such as they were, were merely using them to gather light.”

“Sounds familiar,” Ansem says, with a shake of his head.

“...Quite. Naively, I hoped… that the darkness of man was artificial. But it seems that it was not, that we as humans… were  _ always _ dreadful to one another. It’s so dismal. I thought I would feel good, making these discoveries, but I…” He trails off and crosses his arms. 

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Regardless of darkness.”

“So it seems.”

“And there’s always light in the darkness, Even.”

He scowls. “Can’t you say something more than a mere platitude?”

“It’s truth.” He tilts his head. “If anything… this convoluted suffering of these two boys… has brought back out this tender part of you I feared gone.”

“...I struggle, to be Even,” he admits. “I feel a helpless wretch. Seeing Ienzo in such danger, I could not lift a finger. I could not do  _ anything _ aside from watch.”

“But you were there. Which is more than I can say.” He taps a few things on the screen. “This actually appears to be in good shape. Needs a new motherboard. That’s all. Those are easy to come by, in the market. We can go together.”

“...But shouldn’t someone be here in case--?”

“Everyone here has a gummiphone, and they also know how to use it. It’d do you some good to get outside. I don’t think any of us will leave Ienzo without company.”

They walk, slowly. Even realizes, almost for the first time, that he’s taller than Ansem; the man always seemed larger than him. How odd. “Do you… know what happened?”

“I’ve been briefed by nearly everyone, yes.”

Their walk to town is nearly completely silent. They wade through the snow. “I thought I would know what to do, once I began my pitiful attempt at atonement,” Even admits. “But all I’ve done to help so far--results in nothing.”

“I’m not much better. I tried to assist Ienzo, but all I did was allow the boy to destroy himself. I wasn’t… a good father. I never allowed him to even call me “dad.”” He shakes his head. “I never prioritized him. He was… something of a pet, looking back on it.”

“Yet when I suggested that you became extremely defensive.”

“Because I’m a stubborn idiot, Even.”

The frankness with which he says this makes Even look up.

“Does it make you feel good to hear you were right?” he asks. There’s no sharpness to it; he really wants the answer.

“No,” he says. “Not at all.”

For a while all that is audible is the sound of their boots crunching the snow. “I should’ve listened,” Ansem continues. “We could’ve placed the boy in a good home. He could’ve grown up safe, loved--more than the desiccated love of researchers. Xehanort might not have used him, might not have held him as a chip over you. Because I’m sure he did.”

“And none of this would have happened?” Even asks dryly.

“I’m not sure about that. But we could’ve spared one life.” He sighs. “I admit I’m… glad for Demyx, in some ways. He’s giving him a support we couldn’t--and still can’t.”

“I feel the same,” Even says dully. “All along I thought he was--that he would--”

“Physically use the boy and cast him aside?”

Even shrugs. “But has anyone in Ienzo’s life done anything more?” His eyes ache, from exhaustion and the whiteness of snow. “Demyx was there when it happened… his devastation told me his feelings are genuine.”

"...Perhaps we should get used to him, then."

"It could be worse." He frowns. "I'm… trying not to consider what might happen if--"

"Ienzo will not give up if he has a say in the matter. Have faith in the boy."

"I do," Even says haltingly. "But I wish… we had been on better terms prior to… I have so much to make up to that boy. The least I can do is ensure he has a long and happy life."

"Is that not atonement enough?" Ansem asks softly.

"It never will be. Never. It’s all become so dreadfully human to me, what we did. I wrote an impact statement for the committee. These people were more than just hearts, they were…”

“Dreams? Memories?”

Even nods. 

“I understand,” Ansem says. “I turn back towards what I’ve done, my abuse of those Nobodies. They may not be human, but they are still living, they still have their own wants and needs. And now… because of you they have a second chance to really live as they were meant to.”

He shakes his head a little. 

“I’ve been much too harsh with you,” Ansem says.

Even stops in his tracks. “What?”

“Being cruel to you will not fix things. It will not change what’s been done.”

Is that all? “Oh.”

“But I find your humility promising.”

He can’t stop it. “I’m not an irredeemable wretch after all?”

“You were never. I’m afraid I… stumble more with my words than I used to.”

Even drops his eyes. They’re almost back at the castle. “I did try,” he admits. “Just not hard enough.”

“Try what?”

“To get him out.”

Ansem stares at him. “When was this?”

“The night they threw you into darkness.” Even’s heart seems to itch. “I was going to run. But they… guessed.” He swallows. “Xehanort threatened to--”

Ansem touches his shoulder. “Peace.”

“I could’ve tried harder. I could’ve. Yet more painful that the boy forgives me for all of it.”

“You can do better now. You already are.”

“...You needn’t tell me sweet lies.”

“It’s not a lie. You’re changing. I wish I could follow.”

Even blinks. “Can’t you?”

Ansem chuckles. “This city is in shambles,” he says. “The ones picking up the pieces are  _ children, _ inexperienced but hopeful. Rather than return here, to assist this resistance, I… tried to do everything myself. I let the people suffer. I let someone clean up my mess. Sound familiar?”

“Do you believe it’s too late to change?”

Ansem doesn’t answer. “Come,” he says instead. “We should check on the boy.”

* * *

The days pass. Even finds himself again becoming numb, but he tries to take care of himself. He needs to keep it together for Ienzo.

The boy sleeps and sleeps.

For the first few weeks, Ienzo has next to no neural activity, essentially reading as braindead; which would track if his will is not rebounding. He fears for the worst. How long should they wait before…

No. He will not go there.

He tries to research the subject further, but all there is are fragments, scraps of similar things in ancient, moldering texts. There truly is no precedence for any of this. There’s nothing any of them can do aside from take care of him and wait.

If Even or Ansem isn’t with him, Demyx is. Somehow in all this he’s regained the ability to summon his sitar, but Even finds he doesn’t mind the noise. It fills the utter silence. It keeps the boy company.

Perhaps for this reason, Ienzo begins to manifest some activity. It’s incredibly limited--barely noticeable--but to Even’s sharp eyes, it’s there. 

“You surely are taking your time,” Even mutters. 

Seeing it is a relief. It means this all isn’t for nothing.

One of these days, he’s in checking Ienzo’s vitals when he sees Demyx sitting by the window, reading, oddly enough. He consults the monitor. “EEG activity is still fairly limited. But improving. He must be dreaming.”

Demyx looks up. “About what?”

“I’ve no idea. ...What is  _ that _ ?” He thought that the book in front of the boy was one is Ienzo’s fantasy stories, but taking a closer look at it… Why on earth is Demyx reading something like  _ that _ ? “Are you quite alright?” He checks the boy’s temperature. It’s the only explanation.

Demyx scowls and shuts the book. “I’m studying. Sue me.”

“But why?” He already has the boy, no need to impress him further.

A sheepishness replaces the anger. “You’re just going to make fun of me,” he says.

“I will  _ not _ .”

He gives Even a doubtful look.

“I must admit I am still getting used to the new you. Tell me. I will withhold judgement.”

But the last thing he expects out of the boy’s mouth is, “I’m thinking of learning to heal. Like. The magic.”

The _last_ thing Even expected to hear.“Really? Why is that?”

“I want to help people. And this seems like something I can actually do.” He sighs. “I hate feeling helpless. If I can help someone not feel that way, it’d be nice. You know.”

He does know. All too well. It’s still jarring to hear Demyx talk about this, when he once couldn’t be trusted to do what he was told, or really follow anything other than his own whims. But knowing all he’s gone through… he can understand that itch, that need to ease suffering.

(And, somewhat gallingly, Demyx’s bedside manner is better than his own, degree or no.)

“I admit I never put much stock in such magic initially. But seeing how that woman has cared for the two of you, I’m starting to change my mind.”

There’s an earnestness in his newly-green eyes when he asks, “Do you think I can do it?”

Demyx might not be booksmart, but if Even remembers anything of the Organization days, he knows Demyx’s magic was powerful. “You had a fairly potent magical ability in the Organization. I don’t see why not.” 

“You don’t think I’m too stupid?”

He’s getting aggravated, but for a completely new reason. Since when does anything Even says mean anything to him? ( _ You’re his in law.) _

_ (Do not think about that. _ )

“I find it stupid that you hold my opinion in such high esteem. As you said. You’re not a scientist. But that really has little to do with practical intelligence.” He reaches for the tome. “I’d be glad to help you, should you so want it. These aren’t exactly light reading. It’d be convenient to have another pair of hands.” He picks up another bag of saline. “Well. If you’re so interested, I might as well teach you how to do this much.” He shows Demyx how to change the IV and how to take base vitals; he watches with interest. “I’m hoping we won’t need to do this for too much longer. But that’s all up to him.” He pats Ienzo’s head.

Demyx is tearing up. “I miss him.”

His emotions are always so clear, so close to the surface. Even is vaguely jealous. “As do I. Come. Are you hungry?”

* * *

They actually end up spending quite a lot of time together, in the upcoming weeks; Even has a feeling Demyx is lonely, and if he’s being honest with himself, so is he. Sometimes the boy will sit near him, as he writes or works in the lab, nose buried in a book (the sight is so bizarre; Even feels half delirious), only looking up to ask questions about anatomy or for a definition of a word. It reminds him of his days teaching. He used to find that work paltry, annoying, something to get through so he could go back to the worthwhile. But he finds he doesn’t mind it. Demyx is sharp, perceptive; he must’ve been, to have gathered such good intelligence in the Organization, but only now is Even seeing it. And finds himself wondering how much of his ill will towards the boy was baseless.

“...Sorry,” Demyx says one day. “But do you mind if I play something? I… I can’t focus otherwise.” With a soft laugh.

He sighs. But to answer in the negative would just discourage the boy. “If you must.”

The boy hefts the instrument into his arms, tunes the strings, begins absently playing a quiet melody to himself. Even glances up, observing him calmly; he pauses every now and again to flip a page, but his gaze is focused. 

“Are you glad, to be back here?” Demyx asks suddenly.

He blinks. “In this lab? I should think not--it’s a disaster.”

“No.” He chuckles. “Here, here. In Radiant Garden. As Even.”

He swivels his stool to face the boy. “If I’m to be honest--it hasn’t been easy.”

“...No,” Demyx admits. 

“But I…” He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Where else do you go?” he asks wryly.

“Yes… and… I may still be able to… be of use, here.” He curses his inelegance.

“But what do you want?”

The earnestness of it makes him laugh. “When you get older you’ll realize you can’t just live for yourself.”

“I mean I know that already.” He shakes his head. “Even. What would make you happy?”

He blinks. “Do we deserve happiness, after what we did?”

“Is suffering any better?”

Even feels vaguely shaken.

Demyx lets the sitar disappear and comes over to him. He leans on his elbow. “No reason for you to be one of your own victims,” he says. “So you might as well lighten up a little. I’m going to go do laundry. ...I’m on my last pair of underwear.” He wrinkles his nose and disappears.

“I did not wish to have that information,” Even says to his retreating form. 

But once he’s gone… Even ponders what he said. Turning it over.

Wondering if the boy might actually be right for once.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ienzo wakes up, but that doesn't mean things are peaceful. Leon has questions about the experiments.

He’s actually working on the new replica’s samples when it happens; he’s astounded to find they’re developing their own DNA, their own signatures--essentially,  _ becoming organic humans. _ But before he can compute the thrill of this, his door is being thrown open.

“Boy, I told you if you want to come you must knock--”

“It’s Ienzo,” but he’s grinning, his eyes alright. “Even, he’s awake!”

"He… is?"

Demyx grasps his hand and pulls him towards Ienzo's room. "He's been talking and everything. His vitals look great. He's… he's really…" His voice hitches a little.

"Don't get emotional on me, boy. I'm sure you want to be on your best behavior. Not when you have so much to tell him."

"Yeah… I do."

Even squeezes his hand gently. "It'll all be alright. He's nothing if not understanding."

“Do you think we’ll be… different?”

“...I’ve no idea why you’re asking me about the state of your own romantic affairs.”

He takes a breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You  _ are _ different, Demyx. But I think he’ll see any changes as for the better.”

Demyx nods once. “I’m sure you two want to talk.”

It occurs to Even that, after all this time, he’s unsure of what to say to a  _ conscious _ Ienzo. “We all have a lot to catch Ienzo up on.”

Demyx winks once, and disappears. The change in the boy is immediate. He’s so much happier.

Even feels something like a flutter of nerves when he sees the open door. He takes a deep breath to compose himself. And enters.

Ienzo’s sitting up, his feet over the side of the bed, a blanket draped around his shoulders. “Hi, Even,” he says.

The relief is uneven in him. “Oh, child,” he says. “Have you any idea how worried we’ve all been?”

“Apparently so.” He smiles. 

Even approaches the boy. "How do you feel?" he asks cautiously. "Spare me no small ache--you truly did a number on yourself."

"Actually quite well, against all odds," he says. "Ironically I'm rather tired."

He takes the boy's wrist, feels for a pulse. He brushes some of the dirty hair out of Ienzo's face. "It was a brave thing you did," he says softly, in case anyone is listening. "Brave… and foolish."

"I'm afraid I can't watch idly by anymore. Not if I have the power to make change."

"Nor should you, but… Ienzo. If you're to be as self-sacrificing as this, you must be more careful." He sits next to him. "You… essentially liquified your own organs. For some time you read as braindead. We thought--"

"I wouldn't make it?" He nods once. "It was quite hard, to claw myself back. I do not intend on going anywhere. I have so much to do still."

"Well. I'm afraid you must take things easy. Your body's likely going to be weak. You shouldn't do anything strenuous, physically or mentally."

"Human fallibility," Ienzo mutters.

"...Quite."

"I suppose it was illuminating," he says, twisting the end of the blanket in one hand. "I… regained my lexicon. But it's different. Let me--" He holds out a palm; Even grasps it and pushes it down.

"You can show me another time," he says. "I'm sure it's fine, considering your miscreant has gotten his weapon back too, but it never hurts to be too cautious. And you should be, boy. Do you realize how close you were to--"

"That's what I fought for six weeks, Even." His tone is sharp. "Every minute, if I didn't consciously concentrate, I could've--" He trails off. "What happened? Out here?"

"You were asleep. No neural activity. Nothing. We weren't sure--"

"That I had a will at all?"

"Yes. Were you conscious of anything? Did you hear us talking to you?"

Ienzo thinks. "No," he says. "I heard Demyx's sitar, but I was in his memories. I might not have actually heard anything."

"He did play for you. Extensively, and much to Dilan's displeasure."

He laughs a little, then sobers. "I… know how you feel about it. Thanks for tolerating him."

"A lot can change in six weeks. It's been… surprising. I figure… it could've been worse. He was devastated. I was worried that he might not be invested in you."

"...That he would use me." He shakes his head. "You needn't worry. Not about him, anyway."

"No. Clearly you're your own menace."

He bites his lip. 

"Your life has worth, too. You needn't spend it to atone."

"I'm trying to realize that. Truly I did not mean to do anything reckless. But by the time I got out, it was too late."

Even squeezes his hand. "It's alright, little one."

"I'm twenty. You needn't call me that." He offers a smile. Then, rather timidly, he embraces Even.

"Alright. Both of you so emotional. Pull it together, yes?"

He chuckles. "I suppose… now we find out what comes next in this life."

"Yes, well. Not until you recover. Do you feel up to eating something light?"

* * *

Now that Ienzo’s awake again, the mood at the castle has brightened; or at least it does for several days. It’s beyond a relief to know everyone is well.

Even feels as though he’s wilting. He tries to be there for the boy, to offer him any help he can with his recovery. They walk, the two of them. They do have a lot to talk about. But what to say? How to say it?

Ienzo looks a bit withered as well, a dullness coming back into his eyes. “You alright, boy?” Even asks. 

He fiddles with his turtleneck, pulling it higher over his scars. “Strangely, I am rather dejected,” he admits. “Without work… I feel listless. Moreover, I fear I’m beginning to process… all that has happened.” He’s silent for a moment, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

Even sighs. With all the boy’s gone through over the years, this could be dangerous.

“It feels like something of an iceberg. All these complicated feelings keep washing over me, and I’ve no way to adequately deal with them.” He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

“What is it you need to say?”

“I am twenty years old… and yet… my heart is quite literally that of a child’s. I’m not  _ prepared _ .” He scratches at his cheek, fidgeting anxiously. “Demyx and I are talking to each other about it. He’s incredibly supportive, but yet--he also has so much to deal with. So much.”

“I’ve heard… stories,” Even admits.

“It’s all so complex. I know I need to open myself in order to heal. But I’m afraid that, should I…” He trails off.

“You might not be able to bear up against the pain?”

“...Quite.”

It’s a snowy day, as have been most recently. “But you must,” Even says softly. “You can’t deny your past forever.”

“I know this.” He takes a long, deep breath. “Which is why I want to go to the basement.”

Even feels his heart skip a beat. As calmly as he can manage, he says, “Why would you want to do that? It’s just all moldering architecture.”

“Something must be down there. I can no longer feel it the same way I used to, but I still feel  _ something. _ They were the first artificial Heartless--likely they could not burrow into the realm of darkness. Our victims might still very well be trapped there.”

Even turns to face him. He sees a muscle in Ienzo’s jaw twitch, bracing himself. “How do you propose to do that? I know Zexion was a powerful mage, but Ienzo--you’re recovering from a coma, and you have no power.”

He drops his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“There’s also no  _ proof _ anything is down there. Boy, I’m afraid that chapter is over--done with. You need to move on.”

“And how do you propose I do that?” he asks, coolly. 

Even can’t think fast enough to respond.

“You don’t know either,” he says instead. “Do you?”

“Ienzo--”

“I should go. I said I’d meet Demyx for lunch.”

* * *

Ienzo’s right. The boy’s not going to take unsubstantiated platitudes--nor should he.

Even turns back to his writings. His head is positively spinning, but every time he tries to focus, to brainstorm, he hits something of a dead end. He never used to be so incapable of thought. So much for being a devious researcher.

He finds himself gravitating towards their research during the Organization years…

Why was the use of power so dangerous for Ienzo? He reads what they learned about the will… its nebulousness, its intangibility… and something clicks.

Ienzo doesn’t have a human will.

Rather, it  _ wasn’t _ , considering he became a Nobody before it was fully formed, but it  _ became. _ The energy caused by that shift alone must have only destabilized him more… Trying to slam together the humanity of his decision to save his beloved and the fact that this was a Nobody power must’ve been cataclysmic. Increasing the risk a thousandfold. 

In the middle of all this research, he receives a message from one of the restoration committee members, asking to talk to him about his report. It’s been close to two months since he sent it; he’s surprised it’s taken this long for someone to have questions.

He meets the man in the hallway. He’s not sure what to expect; honestly it puts him a bit on edge, like he’s been caught. But this was a willful confession.

“You’ve been cleaning the place up,” the man says. He’s perhaps a few years older than Demyx, but more mature in his bearing. Even’s eyes catch the scar on his face. “It looks good. Name’s Squall Leonheart. Call me Leon.” He offers a hand.

“...I am Even. One of Ansem’s former apprentices. But you know that, I’m sure.”

He nods.

“Could I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? I’m afraid it’s always rather cold in here.”

“Not necessary, but thanks. Is there somewhere we can talk?” His expression is stoic and his voice betrays little. It’s rare that Even has trouble reading someone.

“Of course. There’s a fire in the sitting room. You’ll likely be more comfortable there.”

It’s here they settle; Even on the small sofa, Leon in one of the high-backed chairs. He pulls a steno pad and pen out of his pocket, all business. “So I heard you were MIA, for a while,” Leon says. 

“I was… tying up a few things. Doing what I could in that fight.”

“Solving Ienzo’s body problem,” he says, with a small smile. “He almost ended up on the business end of Yuffie’s shuriken, when she was patrolling the place. We didn’t know anyone was here. But he offered his help. I’m not surprised by much anymore, but that was… something.”

“He wishes to atone. Like the rest of us.”

“So I’ve heard. Aerith is beyond excited Demyx wants to learn from her. It’d be nice if she could actually sleep for once.”

Even has a feeling the small talk is supposed to be warming Leon to him. But he has no idea what the other man wants. “How can I help you?” he asks. He tries to smile.

“I’ve been combing through your report. I just had a few questions.”

“...Anything.”

Leon seems to think for a few minutes. “After you… experimented on these people,” he begins slowly. “What did you do with them?”

Even takes a slow breath to compose himself. “There were no bodies,” he says. “Little physical to dispose of. A vast majority became Heartless, and the few that begat Nobodies… Braig quickly eliminated them. You likely remember him as Xigbar.”

He scribbles quickly. “What were the families told?”

“Well--nothing. It was only when the junior apprentices--Lea and Isa-- called the authorities on us that Xehanort… convinced us to cast aside our hearts.” His hand flutters at his breastbone; he forces himself to drop it back to his lap. “I’m not sure if they still know.”

“And the list you gave me was comprehensive?”

“Yes. We were rather meticulous in our records--for good and ill.”

“How long was it really going on?” 

“In total--only about two years. These things escalated unusually quickly. And once Xehanort was found, all bets were off, weren’t they?” Even sighs. “It took us all too long to realize the boy was corrupt. By then… so were we. There are no excuses.”

“And no law,” Leon says. He looks up and smiles, and Even doesn’t know what to get out of it. “But seems like humanity has changed you.”

“I was able to return to myself, the person I was before darkness, that is. That gives one… clarity. I think the others feel similarly. I only became Vexen again to assist the other side in finding and giving form to their lights. The least I could do. We’ve already caused so much destruction--this town included.”

Leon keeps writing, his eyes on his pad. “What you did made us vulnerable, sure. But ultimately it was Maleficent, and her stupid plots, that made us fall.”

Even blinks. “What?”

He looks up. “She was the one who spread the darkness--didn’t you know that?”

“If I did… I surely did not process it until now.” He shakes his head. When he caught wind of Radiant Garden’s fall, he’d just assumed--

It does not matter whether or not they made it fall; they made  _ so many other _ worlds fall as well. Xemnas needed Heartless for fodder, for Kingdom Hearts. How else to get them? “I guess the only other question I have concerns Ansem, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him,” Leon says. “Maybe you can help?”

“I can’t pretend to understand that man. But I can offer  _ an _ answer.” It doesn’t surprise Even at all that Ansem’s been dodging those calls. 

“Is he going to try and retake power?”

Even blinks. He’s been expecting more questions about the genesis of their experiments. “I don’t believe so,” he says slowly. “Would you even want something like that?”

Leon purses his lips. “It’d be a bandaid on a larger problem,” he admits. “There’s no government, nothing ruling the town. And now that so many people are coming in--it just gets more and more obvious we need  _ some _ rules, just to keep people safe.”

“What, no robbery and murder?” Even asks dryly.

“...Pretty much. Should that happen, what could we really do to stop them? Not to mention, without an adequate headcount of people, we can’t be sure how to allocate or plan for resources. Anarchy is well and good--if people have good intentions.” He shuts his notebook. “Thanks for this. You were pretty thorough, for the most part.”

“I would hope so.”

“The only outstanding question I have… do you all intend on staying here? Better than the place rotting, for sure, but I just need to know how far our patrol has to stretch.”

“It was--is--our home,” he says. “We can be the most useful here.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Leon stands. 

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can assist with?” he asks. He hopes he sounds calm.

He shrugs. “Not so much that I can think of, at least right now. You must have a lot on your hands as is, getting this place habitable.”

The subtext, such as it were, is clear.  _ You’ve done enough. _ “...Alright.”

“Stay warm,” he says briskly, and leaves.

Not a moment later, Dilan saunters in. “What was that about?”

“Oh, he just had some questions,” Even says. “I had given over an impact statement.”

Dilan’s eyes widen in horror. “Why would you do that?”

Even blinks. “As if they don’t already know?”

“Even, you’ve--you’ve no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

He cocks his head. “We can’t hide behind these walls. The things we did have hurt everyone here--the least we can do is be honest about it.”

“There’s no government. What of those seeking revenge?”

“Like they wouldn’t have already?” Even asks.

His face is very red.

“The least we can do is cooperate with what the committee needs.”

“For all you know, you might have just signed our death sentences.”

Even rolls his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, Dilan, but times are different. These people are not nearly as ruthless, as merciless, as us. As if we’d ever get such an easy escape from the guilt.”

He’s scowling, his fists clenched tightly. “You do not get to make decisions for us anymore,” he snaps, and storms away.

Anymore? Had he ever?

Even isn’t angry, though. He’s just tired. He goes back to his rooms, notes with annoyance that he needs to do laundry. He gets it done and is just folding the dry things when he hears a gentle knock at his door. “Enter.”

He sees Demyx poke his head in.

“Did you need help with something?” he asks. Then frowns; the boy’s face is pinched, anxious. “You do not look well.”

He hesitates, then shuts the door behind him. “Ienzo wants to go to the basement.”

Of course he told him about it. “Yes. And?”

“Well--what if something’s down there?”

“I thought you could adequately defend yourself now?” It’s making sense. Ienzo wants Demyx to go with him, to supposedly free whatever’s down there--if there even is anything.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” He exhales and rumples his hair. “He’s got the lexicon. What if he tries using his powers again?”

He shakes his head. “He’s aware of the risk. I doubt he’d try.”

“What if he doesn’t do it consciously?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I had the impression it took a lot of effort for him to traverse your memory.” Not to mention the return...

“But he couldn’t control it. I don’t know what this is going to entail. If I’m just going to beat up some Heartless, or maybe there’s nothing down there and this is just for closure. But  _ what if _ .” His hands are trembling as he gestures.

“Since when was forethought a strength of yours?” Even asks. “Boy, now you’re making me worry.” The last thing they need… he’s only just--

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

He sighs. He sets aside his things, noting that his hands are shaking now, too. There’s one way he might be able to get ahead of this--to stop Ienzo from killing himself, because this is what it’s rapidly becoming. “Come along.”

In a blur, they both go downstairs. He packs him a simple med kit, and then reaches for the nuclear option, with a syringe. He places them on the table in front of the boy. “You’re aware of the correlation at this point, of heart failure and overuse of power.”

“Well--yes.”

“I’ve been poking through our research. The reason why it struck Ienzo so intensely has largely to do with the fact that he quite literally grew up as a Nobody. Trying to adequately corroborate his humanity with a Nobody will served to heighten the risk. It may not happen again. Perhaps he’s adjusted. At the same time… it may.”

Demyx eyes the vial. “What’s that?”

“A serum to induce sleep. Should he begin to exhibit the same symptoms, you should dose him. And then call for help. I’m giving this to you as a precaution only.” Even unwraps the syringe, preps it, and then caps it off.

Demyx shudders. “That’s a poison. Not a sedative.”

“Sleep akin to death,” Even murmurs. “Better than actual death, is it not?” Anything to stop the damage before it stops  _ him. _ But Demyx doesn’t take it from him. His skin has gone ashen.

“I can’t.”

“You must. This is--” He exhales, exasperated. “For goodness' sake, you might not even need it.” Even places it on the table in front of him. “Have you tried convincing him out of it?” If Ienzo will do anything for anyone, it’s Demyx.

He nods. “Yes. But how can we escape it? We live here. He’s reminded of it every day. If it’s not now, it’d be some other time.”

“The boy is… determined.” He sighs. “I’m trusting you with this. With him. Do you understand?”  _ Don’t let him slip away. _

Another nod. There’s something like resolve in his eyes.

“So take it.”

After a moment where he seems to struggle, he grasps the syringe and leaves without another word.

Even finds it hard to breathe. He tries to convince himself that this won’t happen--that there’s  _ nothing _ down there, and if there is, that Ienzo can’t be of any help to them. Heartless don’t have memories.

That wasn’t all Ienzo did to Demyx.

He altered things. Lessened the brunt of trauma, the binding of it.

What were Heartless--theirs--other than pure trauma, pure darkness?

Even rests his head in his hands. He can’t. He can’t let him--

But the suffering of those poor people--

He hears himself gasping. He can’t lose Ienzo to darkness. Not again. Was it truly the boy’s decision? Or is it some--suicidality he isn’t fully conscious of? Doesn’t he have things to live for? Can’t he see that?

The boy can never be happy if he can’t move on.

The boy can’t move on unless he does something to atone.

He can’t atone without helping their victims.

Even sinks wearily onto his cot and prays for unconsciousness.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The darkness has been purged from the basement. As Ienzo begins to recover in earnest, Even feels stagnant.

Even sits the next day, waiting for the phone call. He feels numb. Better to be numb in this moment. He’ll be able to make better decisions if he can’t feel. He keeps Aerith on speed dial. Mostly, he tries to keep it together.

It doesn’t take long. The phone rings and he hears Demyx sobbing, a sound that shouldn’t be familiar, but is. “It’s alright,” Even says. “I know. We’re coming.”

Call Aerith. Wrangle Dilan--who protests and snarls at Even after that argument, but submits immediately when he tells him Ienzo is in trouble.

It also helps that Even twisted his arm painfully.

They go down and down and down those stairs. He doesn’t feel anything, seeing it again. The air is dank, damp, and musty, but there’s no smell of darkness.

They must’ve done it, then.

He feels almost possessed, punching in those numbers, not listening to Dilan’s protests. About fifteen meters from the offices, he sees them, the blood, Demyx doing compressions. “Take care of him,” Even hisses at Dilan.

But when he tries to move Demyx, they quickly discovered he’s injured too, blood gushing from his right arm. When Dilan tries to get him to walk, he can’t bear his own weight, and when the man heaves him up, Demyx actually resists, reaching with his good arm towards Ienzo, something shattered in his eyes. But it’s an easy fight, and Dilan carries him away.

_ Keep him alive. _

Don’t look at the blood. Do compressions, keep his heart beating. Don’t notice the fact that his eyes are still half-open and that he looks like a broken doll. Don’t notice that it sounds like it hurts him to breathe. Don’t think about death, that the boy’s tempted it too many times now, eventually it’s bound to take.

Keep him alive.

She’s there before long, there to help, always. Her eyes are frantic. “The second time,” she says. “Even, I don’t--”

He doesn’t listen. He waits.

It’s a harder fight, takes longer to stabilize him in order to move. His own hands are trembling. Aeleus takes him and they, so slowly, put Ienzo in bed. Aerith keeps working, keeps trying to heal the boy.

Even checks on Demyx. He’s still so numb, but the boy isn’t. He tries to stand, to cross over to Even, only to immediately drop to the floor with a soft groan. “Oh, bother,” Even says. “Here. Right. Up we go.” He sits the boy down, checks his wounds. Someone has wrapped them up. 

“What’s going on,” Demyx asks, full of panic. “How--”

“Getting yourself worked up will not help the situation,” Even says dully. “Let me see your leg.” He feels at it. Without machinery, it’s hard to be completely sure. It seems to just be a torn hamstring.

“Even,” he presses. “He’s not--”

“No,” Even says. “Ienzo lives yet.”

“You say that as if it’s not guaranteed.”

What does he seriously expect? “His condition is quite critical. Aerith is doing what she can. The situation he’s in… it’s quite extreme. We’re still not fully sure of the extent of the damage.”

“He didn’t know he was doing it,” Demyx says. He’s crying, hiccuping. “He was taking them out of the pain. Out of the memory, like he did for me.”

“And the interference of darkness doubtless doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t know either,” Demyx says. “I just--I thought--I didn’t see anything, and then when I did see he was getting weak I tried to get him out of there. But then I got attacked.”

“You’re not at fault.”

“Yes I am.” His voice is sharp, full of razors. “I shouldn’t have let him do this at all--”

“As you said. This would’ve happened sooner or later. Ienzo, in his humanity, has become quite impulsive.”

“Still, I--”

“I believe he was more sensitive to their pain than he let on. He always was acutely aware of darkness. When he was a little boy, he would tell me he could hear the screams. I always thought it was trauma. Now I'm not so sure.” He’s barely aware of the words.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“You two were the only ones equipped to end this suffering, and willing to do it. I cannot be mad that has a price.” He can feel it, deep in the pit of his being. It’s all over. The smell of darkness is gone, and the basement is just a basement.

He isn’t mad at Demyx. He knows the boy tried his best.

He wishes he could feel.

Ienzo is dying. He can feel that.

Does he take the pain now, or later?

Demyx is still talking. “I knew her. Subject X. Her name was Skuld.”

Their first true victim. The thought of her large orange eyes. “Really?”

“We were both Dandelions.”

There are never coincidences, are there? “I did think that was a needlessly poetic name.” Even takes his hand. “This has obviously been quite traumatic for you.”

“What about you?”

It feels like getting slapped. “It is never easy to see Ienzo in danger,” he says haltingly. “I admit I do not care for this new self-sacrificing streak of his.”

“You raised him.”

Even stares at him. Is his numbness obvious? “You know how I feel about Ansem’s paternal instincts. What was I to do, let the boy go rabid?” He sighs. “Like many days of our past, that was a harsh one. All of a sudden I’m presented with a bloody, traumatized child and expected to make it all better. Not unlike now. At least you’re speaking to me. It took him close to a year to talk.” A voice he may not hear again.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You should get some rest. You must be exhausted.”

“But what if he--”

“Should the situation worsen, I will rouse you.” He stands. “He would not want you to push yourself for his sake.” Not if he may be all that’s left of the boy.

Even leaves, feeling his body weighing him down, the walls not having straight lines. He opens the door to Ienzo’s room. The girl is still hard at work. He can’t think of anything to say. He leaves. He sees Aeleus, the man’s white gloves stained with blood--whose?

“Even?” the man says. “Even, friend?”

He feels the pain starting in him, sharp. “Aeleus, I’m afraid--”

He steps forward just in time to catch Even as he falls.

* * *

He’s been put in his bed. There’s a cloth on his forehead, which is splitting. The light hurts his eyes.

There’s someone in the room with him. He tries to focus. 

“Easy, there,” says a voice.

Even groans a little. “...Ansem. Where is--”

“I’m afraid everyone else is indisposed at the moment. You must deal with me.” He hands him a glass of water. “When was the last time you slept?”

“The stress, I’m afraid, triggered another… spell. I can’t simply keep it together now.” He forces himself to sit up, drinks all the water down. “Do I… want to ask about Ienzo?”

Ansem sighs, a heavy sound. He knots his hands. “It’s every bit as bad as it was the first time. But the girl is optimistic. Says she can feel him.”

He feels nauseous.

“They ended it. That boy, his unrelated lover. This wasn’t their responsibility, and they still were able to fix things. All while we… wrote it off as collateral.” He shakes his head slowly. “I trust in him too. He had such a connection with the darkness. Purging it… can finally give him peace.”

Even isn’t sure what he feels. It’s strong, it’s bittersweet. It’s painful.

“We’re running out of chances with him,” Ansem says. 

“I know.”

“Did you help them do this?”

“I… gave Demyx medicine, to try and save Ienzo. I have no idea if I was successful. I… he…” He can’t speak. “Ienzo was stuck. He was willing to do this. They both were. Like you said. Collateral. I did not want it to happen. But otherwise… the boy would be haunted. As Demyx said, we  _ live _ here. We live with the darkness we’ve made. And he was always so sensitive to it. So yes. I helped the boy. If sparing them helps spare him… then I am for it.” He’s breathing hard. “They were all victims, Ansem. All of them.”

“Let him go to save him?”

“He’s a grown man, Ansem,” Even says. “But this is more than just Ienzo. It always was. Could I have put up a fight? Dragged you into it? Would it have stopped him?” He’s woozy, faint. “Maybe. Maybe not. Ienzo won’t be manipulated by anyone anymore. Let him be stubborn. He needs it.”

He must sound absolutely insane, because Ansem just gently pushes Even back down. “You need rest, Even,” he says. “You’ll feel more centered.”

“...I’ll try.”

* * *

Even sleeps a long time. He feels unstable, strange, a wretch. Guilt washes over him, even after Ienzo stabilizes, even as they wait. Did he do the right thing, giving the boy the tools to destroy himself? Or did he help them? Did he help those Heartless? Why does he feel so guilty even after assisting in this good deed?

After a week or so of this wallowing, Aeleus intervenes. “You’re getting up,” he says briskly.

“I’ve no need to listen to you.”

“I’m stronger than you,” is all Aeleus says. “So we can do this willingly, or not so.”

Even can tell from his eyes that he means it. 

“Go bathe. I will wait here.” He sits on the chaise, crosses his legs. “I left out a change of clean clothes near the tub.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because clearly at this moment in time you cannot look after yourself. And we look after one another.”

“...I’m frightfully pathetic.”

“Go.” He points towards the bathroom door.

The warm water feels good against his skin. He's greasy, vaguely gritty. It takes a bit of scrubbing to pull himself together, especially his hair. To do all this is absolutely exhausting, the reliance on the body frustrating. Yet more work to comb out his hair. He really has to do something about it. Most unbecoming. When he dresses, he notices Aeleus has left him a new pack of elastics.

It feels odd, to bind up his hair after so many years. Odd and habitual, Llke he's not quite himself. The old Even was much too passive, too vain and petty for his own good, so aggravatingly self-righteous.

And what of this one? Is he making good choices? How to determine what is good and what is not anymore? He feels so like a child, learning the difference between good and evil.

When he emerges, he finds Aeleus has made them both breakfast and coffee. For too long Even stares at it, almost uncomprehending, before finally forcing himself to eat.

"It's like the old days," Aeleus says. "I remember quite often that I'd used to need to feed all of you, tempt you with favorites like you were kids. Otherwise you'd all work yourselves into the ground."

"I'm a doctor--you would think I'd know better, all my wittering on." He shakes his head. 

"Knowing and doing are two different things." He rests his cup on its saucer. "How do you feel?"

"The pain has… faded." He touches his breastbone. "I do hope I'm nearly there. This is awfully inconvenient."

"...Other than that."

"A rather pregnant question."

"I'd like to know." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"In short--guilty." The damp hair against his back is cold in this barely-heated room. "I feel I handed Ienzo the tools to destroy himself. How can I allow it? Yet--doing so, I enabled them to help our poor victims find peace. I don't want to continue to allow the poor boy to throw himself away for others. There must be some other way. Isn't there? All these kids know is sacrifice. It's… so sad."

"Perhaps there can be a future where it is not so."

"I dearly wish for that."

"We can make it happen, Even."

"How? The committee refused my help--and they're the de facto government. And I'm afraid bigger picture experiments are too indulgent when we're sitting here freezing."

Aeleus blinks. "Maybe that's it," he says softly. "We can fix this place--leave it for future generations. But there's one thing you need to work on above all." He takes Even's hand. "Recover. Learn to be human again."

If only it were that simple. "I shall surely try."

* * *

Again, Even writes. He stays out of that frigid lab, sits in silvery sunlight. He writes of how he feels, how his body responds to these emotions. He tries to parse his own psychological state. It's not an easy task. It might be the most difficult, tedious work he's ever done, and he can't be sure he's getting much of anywhere. It all seems like going in circles.

He tries to spend time with the others. Aeleus and Demyx are the most amenable to this, the most willing; and of course Ienzo is a captive audience. But Ansem and Dilan… the latter has been avoiding him since the basement, and the former is often nowhere to be found.

To mend a bond, both parties have to be willing, after all.

The cold seems to ease somewhat, snow yielding sleet, yielding rain. Ienzo sleeps. Demyx continues studying, always with that sitar in hand; Aerith comes by, teaches him simple spells to take care of the boy's fallen form. Even observes this all happening. Demyx is so nervous, his hands trembling. He shapes magic gently, cautiously, getting what he needs done. Then, facing Aerith with something like wonder, "I can… feel him. He's really going to be--" He cries, and she embraces him. Good. The boy can use more friends.

He misses that sense of awe, of fixing what's broken. Then again, he never was that way in the limited time he actually practiced medicine. People were things to him, inconveniences.

And now? He can't be nurturing, it simply isn't his nature. But perhaps he can help ease the strain, so to speak. So many others are in agony, the psychological consequences scarring them for life. His knowledge of psychopharmacology is limited. But he has time, and a library. He reads, studies compounds, scavenges for materials in the marketplace.

He puts on his white coat, ties back his hair.

Even experiments.

* * *

The weeks pass, one after the other.

This is the sort of work that takes time, patience. His study of replicas gave him more insight to the human body, how it might react to certain compounds. This is still something that will require testing. But it’s all he has, so he moves forward. He studies the physiological impacts of trauma, of darkness--scars and burns. He tests treatments on his own myriad scars. Not much can help him, but maybe someone else.

They keep watch over Ienzo. It’s been nearly six weeks again. Demyx claims he can feel him, his energy, but the boy is new to his studies, and the EEG machine isn’t giving Even much to work with. But, again, Demyx is right. 

(Demyx has been right about far too many things lately.)

Almost six weeks to the day, Ienzo wakes. He’s with Ansem when it happens, and only an hour or so later does anybody see fit to tell him. “This is all becoming rather routine now, isn’t it?” Even says coolly when he sees the boy at his door. “Come here. Sit. You shouldn’t be up and about without someone properly looking at you.”

“Demyx says I’m fine.”

“Demyx has three weeks of novice healing training. I have a medical degree.” He feels at Ienzo’s vitals, finds that the boy is actually smiling a little. “You’re in awfully good spirits, all things considering.”

“I’m so… relieved.”

Even takes a better look at him. The utter agony that has been in the boy’s eyes since he reformed is gone. This act, reckless and destructive though it was, has given him more than any of them could. “Well I should hope so,” he says crisply. “Your body is not a renewable resource, you know. I should  _ not _ like to make you a replica. It’s no substitute for the real thing. Not when so much is still not proven.”

He sighs. “Well, you needn’t worry. My power is well and truly gone--and the lexicon is now a mere notebook.” He shakes his head. “I don’t need it anymore.”

“No. I should hope not.” Even sits next to him on the chaise. “It’s about time you were able to try living for yourself,” he says. 

Ienzo nods once. “It’s terrifying,” he says. “I was always under someone’s purview or another--now to be under my own? It’s been a… learning experience. Truthfully I do not know what I  _ want _ .”

“You have time,” Even says. “That is, unless you end up destroying yourself again. You won’t get a third chance, Ienzo.”

“I’m aware. And I… am trying to see myself as having worth. I’m not a tool. I’m a person. That in and of itself is overwhelming.”

“It is.” 

The boy twists the tie of his robe in one hand. “So strange, to be warm again,” he says. 

“Yes. I’d forgotten how eternal these winters seem.” He pauses. “You should be careful. I have no doubt that you’ll catch the first thing someone carries in.”

A derelict sigh. Then he smiles. “Quite. Well, if it’s all the same… I’d very much like to get cleaned up.”

“You go on.”

For a second it seems Ienzo will get up; but then he winces and clutches at his head.

“...Child?”

“Headache,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m sure it’ll pass.”

It doesn’t.

* * *

It becomes clear that this recovery is much harder on Ienzo than the last; because the headaches  _ don’t _ go away. It takes him time to bounce back, time to gather his strength. Aerith does her own examination and insists there’s nothing physical about the headaches.

“Well you did wear down your will twice,” she says to Ienzo, in a slightly scolding tone. “Of course it’s going to be a lot harder for it to actually move your body, and this is how that manifests.” 

And Even has no working machinery to take a look at the boy. All they can do is give him medicine… insist he does nothing physically or mentally difficult… and wait. It’s clear this chafes him endlessly. If Even were constantly being poked and prodded and checked in on, given not one moment of alone time or peace, he’d bristle too. But he’d rather have the boy annoyed and frustrated rather than dead. 

Demyx tries to keep his spirits up, keep him entertained, bringing him books and the like; though there’s some tension there too ( _ do not think about why that may be) _ . They’ve weathered the storm, but there will still be aftershocks. 

Even still isn’t entirely sure what happened down there, what Ienzo saw. The humanity of the Heartless intrigues him; it’s possible they’ve been forever wrong about these creatures. He decides to bite the bullet and ask. “I brought you some tea. No pesky headaches today, I hope?”

Ienzo takes the cup from him, setting aside the novel. “No. At least, not yet.”

He appraises him. “Your color looks good. You do look a little thin, though. We should try to get you eating more. I’m not sure how many kilos you lost--”

“My clothing doesn’t feel loose.”

“Even so. I thought you were underweight before all this happened. I’ll get you some of the leftovers from dinner, how does that sound?” He brings the boy a plate, notes that at least he seems to have some appetite. “I know what happened,” Even begins, haltingly. “But I didn’t get to hear the whole story.”

Ienzo shoots him a look. “I’m not sure I’m the source you want. That evening is very hazy to me. Demyx would probably be more accurate.” 

“Hazy? How so?”

“I’ve lost my powers.” As if this explains anything.

“Yes. I can’t say I’m sorry to see them go.”

“Neither am I, but… I believe they gifted me an atypically strong sense of memory, and now that I am merely average, it feels like something of a downgrade.” He touches his brow. “Feelings, fine details, are not so clear.”

How odd… but Zexion’s abilities were always so psychic, so intangible. And the boy’s will was a Nobody’s. To have all that be gone… of course he feels different. “The average memory functions by recording, then recalling that recording, and then taping over it with the recollection. Which is why, for the ordinary person, it fades over time. If you’re not used to that sensation, of course things must seem out of place.”

A pause. “Do you think I will ever be capable of magic again?”

The last thing he needs. It’s hard to go from powerful to powerless, but does the boy  _ still not acknowledge how destructive this all was? _ “...Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I forbid you from trying anything for some months. You’ve taken enough risks.”

Ienzo scowls.

“Ansem agrees with me. So, I’m sure, would Demyx. He was an absolute wreck when you were asleep.” He exhales. “This isn’t about choice, or agency. You’ve pushed the limits of your being too far. Of course we’re going to worry.”

He smiles, but it’s very cold. “This reminds me of when I was a child.”

Alright. Fine. Two can play. “Well, when you were a child, you didn’t have a death wish.” How to impart to him what was done? The boy never used to be dense. 

Is he just in denial?

“Beg pardon?” Ienzo asks. 

This requires gentleness, tact--things Even still is not any good at. “Part of me believes you absolutely did the right thing. On the other hand, the part of me that raised you cannot bear this impulsiveness of yours.”

“It was not an impulsive act. This was something I wanted ever since I was human--”

“But were you truly saving them? Or saving yourself?”

It’s the hesitation, the stuttering, that gives it away. “Does it matter?”

It about breaks Even’s heart. But he should’ve known--hasn’t he raised the boy to be like this? He sits next to him, takes the empty plate. “It’s time for you to let go.”

His tone is rather sharp when he says, “I have. I think you need to follow suit.”

Ienzo’s right; it’s this that has him reeling, and before he can formulate a reply, the door is swinging open and there’s Demyx, carrying a bag of books. “So I couldn’t find the third volume of  _ Shadow of the Morning Star, _ but the rest were there, so--” Noticing the tension, he blinks. “Am I, uh, interrupting something.”

All the better. There’s no way Even can be neatly composed. “I was merely bringing Ienzo some lunch.” He leaves, taking the plate and cup with him, feeling something like lead in the pit of his stomach.

How to let go? How to move on? He’s hoping his new research might be of use, but in case it isn’t? Is he  _ allowed _ to move on? Is he allowed to live?

(Moreover, does he want to?)

He’s in the middle of this process, still clutching Ienzo’s dishes, when he sees Dilan in the hall. For a moment they both hold eye contact before the man pushes past him.

How does Even begin fixing things?

Is it possible?

* * *

All questions, no answers.

There is one person in this castle who is good at such waffling.

For some weeks Even procrastinates seeking him out, but with nothing of substance to do, there's no point. Even takes a breath.

It isn’t easy to find Ansem. Even calls him twice, knowing well the man won’t answer--even for Ienzo he’s hard to get a hold of. A brilliant programmer, yet he can’t--or won’t--grasp the gummiphone.

(It makes him more accountable.)

So he searches. On foot.

It’s the thick of spring, but the castle is still damp, and it’s raining; they’ve all been passing around the same cold. It’s been nearly six months they’re all here, Even realizes. Six months of--what? Not much of anything, really. Reeling, sniping at one another. Only Ienzo and Demyx seem to have begun recovering. The rest of them feel stagnant.

He checks Ansem’s usual haunts; the lab, the library. It’s only as he’s heading towards the man’s quarters does he sees Demyx, toting his medic bag (the sight will never  _ not _ surprise him). When he gets closer, he sees something heavy in the young man’s eyes, his posture slumped more than usual.

“...Boy?” Even asks. “Are you alright?”

He looks up as though surprised, then blinks once. “Even,” he says. “Do you… have some time?”

The wind seems so loud against the breezeway. “That depends. Is something going on? Is… is everyone okay?”

Demyx seems to think for a moment. Then he grasps Even’s hand and brings him back towards the sitting room. “Well I mean not really,” he says in response to Even’s question. “Alive? Yeah. Uninjured? Sure.” He sits Even down on the couch and starts building a fire. “You want tea? You hungry?” There’s something manic and not at all hospitable in the way he’s speaking.

“Boy, you’re frightening me. If you hope to cultivate a good bedside manner--”

“Ansem’s in trouble.”

All he can see is the back of the boy’s head, half shorn. He holds rumpled paper in one hand. Even can hear him breathing. He can intuit what the boy means, but still he asks, “What  _ kind _ of trouble?”

“Like he…” He stays facing the hearth, but he doesn’t move to keep making the fire. “He’s… he was sick. Had a fever. I was outside, taking care of a few things, and I saw him.” He shoves the paper into the fireplace, picks up the box of matches. “Seemed to be in some kind of episode… or flashback… If I hadn’t been there when I was, I’m not sure if he might’ve--”

It feels like getting socked in the stomach. “Are you sure?”

“He said something along the lines of, “I believe I was going to do something reckless.” Which, considering how euphemistically you all talk… yeah, Even. I’m sure.” His voice hitches a little. “Ienzo’s with him. They’re talking about stuff.” He turns to face him, finally. Demyx’s eyes are watering. “Every time I think I start to get it, shit gets a whole lot deeper and more complicated. You guys… all these weird power dynamics…” He shrugs and shakes his head.

“Don’t I know it,” Even says numbly. “I know the man has been avoiding everyone--I figured he wanted nothing to do with me. And rightfully so, all things considering.”

Demyx strikes the match. Its hiss seems particularly loud in the room; Even can’t help but flinch. He shoves it into the fireplace. “I feel so fucking weird,” he says. 

“As… as do I.”

He turns. “Do you feel that way too?” he asks him. “Ienzo can’t--I--”

“I am not… well. But I don’t feel as though… that’s my only option. I’ve put the boy through enough.”

He takes a deep breath. He wipes at his eyes. 

“The question is how to pull us all back together,” Even says. His own body feels so heavy; he has to lean forward on his knees. “I’ve been pondering and pondering it. Do we… deserve to pick up the pieces? And yet… our lives, after so many permutations… are still ours. That can’t be insignificant. We must…  _ need _ to be here. But…” His mouth is so dry. “Boy, I’ve no idea why, or… what to do.”

“It’s gotta be pretty bad, for you to not even pretend to know something.”

“...Quite.”

Neither of them know what to say for a long time. Demyx continues to build the fire, to warm his hands; he’s shaking.

“Your record is cleaner, as it were,” Even says. “You have the excuse of your amnesia. We, on the other hand, very deliberately turned against all we stood for, in the name of…  _ discovery. _ ” He spits the last word. “A decision is much heavier than a choiceless choice.”

“Aren’t you trying to be better?”

“Desperately. With every fiber of my being. But I think Ansem… would believe we’re not worth saving.”

“Why not?”

“...I’ve no idea. Come sit over here, boy. Get off the cold floor.”

After a moment, Demyx obeys. He perches next to Even. “I was there for part of it,” he admits to his lap. “Ienzo said he felt… used.”

Even sighs. “That makes sense,” he says. “Xehanort certainly did use him, as a tool. His brilliance… a bargaining chip over me.”

Demyx sniffles. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yes. And then… all those years in the Organization… Zexion became very loyal. The validation he was given was much needed. Of course the boy would think, in the moment, he was doing the right thing. We all did. The darkness twisted us so. Now of course we know better. That knowledge had a price. While we’re closer to who we once were than we are our Nobodies, we still all hurt each other, tossed one another aside. Trying to reconcile those feelings is… complicated. He was deprived of a normal life, his skills used to further someone else’s agenda… not unlike you.”

“He’s gone through so much--”

“And you haven’t? And we all haven’t?”

Demyx sniffles. “Do you think we’re not worth saving?”

“Either way… we’ve been saved.”

Slowly, he nods. “Gotta make it worth it.”

“...Indeed.”

* * *

Hours later, Even waits. He watches, observes. Ienzo finally returns from Ansem’s quarters, pale, drawn, eyes swollen and red-rimmed. He walks like it hurts. Demyx gently takes him into his arms, guides him into the kitchen.

Even gathers himself.

It’s not a long walk, but it seems like it is. He’s not sure how he feels; he just knows it’s strong. Indignation? Disgust? Outrage? (Concern? Heartache?)

He doesn’t bother knocking on Ansem’s door; besides, it’s cracked open. He takes a deep breath, and enters.

The accused is sitting by the fire, nursing some kind of warm beverage. He looks up at the sudden noise, shakes his head a little, and says, “I suppose my humiliation is complete, then.”

Even cants his head a little to the side. Getting angry will not help at all; yet he feels it in his breast, hot and demanding. He tries to smother it. “Do you still feel ill?”

“I am physically back to normal. More or less. Demyx took good care of me. Sit, why don’t you.”

Even perches on one of the chintz chairs. “The boy says you were delirious. Is that true?”

“True enough. I’m afraid I have much less willpower than I used to. These things are so difficult to combat. Only now do I fully understand your frustration over Ienzo’s mental health.”

“From back then?” 

“Quite. I know to a degree you feel it too.”

“But I’m not about to do anything about it.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve. Equally as uncertain what would’ve happened had the boy not been there. He believes I’m here for a reason.”

“Aren’t we?” He scoffs a little. “Ansem, if the universe truly wanted us dead, truly believed us irredeemable, we’d have been long gone.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in fate.”

“I do now. I’ve been handed so many clues, guided so carefully by such forces. That isn’t for nothing. As much as I would like to… curl into the science, into the known, that simply isn’t the case.”

He nods once. He stares into the flames. “I wasn’t hopeless for a long while,” he admits. “I had my rage to sustain me--then once I arrived, I had the thought of Ienzo, of atonement and you all. But…”

“Where to begin?” Even offers. He exhales. “I believe I know exactly what you mean. I was never good at kindness, as much as my heart wanted me to be. Any way I’ve helped the boy-- _ those _ boys--has resulted in pain.” 

“You’ve given Ienzo peace, Even. That’s not for nothing.”

“Well, he still has a long, long way to go. All that compartmentalizing is bound to begin unpacking itself now that he’s more stable.”

“But peace is the first… piece. As it were.”

Even adjusts his collar. “What would it take for you to find peace, Ansem?”

“...The ability to forgive. If I could find forgiveness, the rest would follow.”

“Do you want to forgive, or be forgiven?”

Ansem is silent. 

Even tries a different track. “Ienzo was in here with you. What is it you spoke about?”

“He doesn’t trust me. I don’t know why that was surprising. Why should he? I abandoned him.”

“You didn’t ask to be--”

“Before that.”

The sharpness of his tone throws Even off for a moment. Ansem sets the empty cup aside and knots his fingers. “Things were getting dark, even before I knew it was completely atrocious,” he says. “Yet I… did not once think of how it impacted him, what was happening to him. You said you tried once to get him out. Why didn’t I?”

“You were the king. Where could you have gone?”

“I had the power to stop these things and I simply didn’t.”

Even leans back a little. He tries to keep his face open, neutral. It’s an uphill battle. “Why not?” he asks gently.

“Part of me… I believe… also wanted to know what it was you were discovering. I hid myself behind false ideas of trust in you, of honor. But deep down? I am just as complicit.”

For a moment all that is audible is the crackle of the fire, the soft tick of a clock. “Guilt is just as intoxicating as darkness,” Even says slowly. “But unlike darkness… it can be useful.”

“I  _ hardly _ call this useful.”

“It reveals the weaknesses in one’s character… things that can, theoretically, be fixed. This isn’t going to be easy.” His hair falls over his shoulder. “I’ve been doing the same thing… it might just be the most impossible research project. But it must be done. No need to waste myself when I still have so much to offer.”

“Like what?”

Even doesn’t know what to read into that question. “I’m educated. I’ve learned so much--true, I’ve used most of it for ill, but now I can undo the damage, or at the least… ensure it never happens again.” When Ansem says nothing, he adds, “The people running this city are  _ children _ , Ienzo’s age. They have no experience, little knowledge. I may have only been a paltry scientist, but I can help them along their way. You could too. They don’t really know how things were. Yes, it was flawed, but it was better--than this.”

“Do you truly believe that would help?”

“Better than hiding, and rotting.” He bites the bullet. “That young man Leon asked if you wanted power again. I had no answer.”

Ansem laughs, but there’s no warmth in the sound. “And--what, wreck what they’ve built?”

“You were king for close to ten years. There were hardly ever more human rights. You cared for these people. You brought unprecedented change.”

“Change which was then taken advantage of.”

“I am  _ trying, _ Ansem. I am  _ trying _ to help you.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t.”

Even feels the blood in his face.

“As you said. All the good you’ve tried only ends in pain. Pain I do not need.”

His hands are trembling. “Very well. If that’s how you feel.” He stands; he’s so angry he’s dizzy, and in his periphery, something far darker and heavier than anger. Even leaves, willing himself not to look back, not to say anything, not to  _ feel-- _

* * *

It takes work, to seal up one’s emotions. He’s forgotten. He hides himself behind his newest project, staying out of the way, saying little, again incapable of being any use. It’s hide himself away or fall apart; neither seems like a good idea. It’s summer now, hot and impermanent, but his lab somehow feels cold. His hair has become longer and more unmanageable until finally he caves and cuts off the dead (singed?) ends. 

He doesn’t isolate himself completely. No point further worrying the boy when he seems his happiest. When necessary, he socializes, but keeps the conversation as surface level as possible. He pushes through it. Facades are so much harder now. It is a relief, to see Ienzo doing so well, all things considering. A relief and somewhat of a novelty to witness the boy in love. It suits him, and for all intents and purposes Demyx seems to be a good partner. He would know; Dilan gossips about it endlessly. (Even supposes the man needs some way to fill his days.) Apparently the boy’s been caught going to and from Ienzo’s room. Even doesn’t particularly care; they’re both human adults in a romantic relationship, these things are bound to happen. More power to them. But to Dilan you’d think it’s the most scandalous thing; so much for him claiming to not care, either. Even puts up with the gossip, because at least it means the man is talking to him.

He didn’t fully realize how serious things are between the two young men (though aren’t they? Ienzo risked his life to save Demyx). All of a sudden one of these days he notices that Ienzo’s possessions are slowly disappearing from his room, piece by piece. Dilan, ever the glutton for drama, faithfully reports that they have cleaned up an apartment several floors below. One day when they are both preoccupied by their work, Even sneaks down to examine it for himself. The door’s been left open, and sure enough there their things are lying; pairs of shoes, jackets, odd little trinkets and books. It evokes in him something deep and bittersweet. The boy’s finally been allowed to properly grow up.

Soon after that, he’s returning to his own quarters after a fruitless day of working when he sees Ienzo rummaging around in his old room’s drawers. He opens the cracked door. It’s beyond strange to see this room so emptied. All of the posters have been taken down, the bookshelf stripped, even the mattress is bare. He realizes that Ienzo’s essentially leaving as soon as Even got used to his presence again. “So that’s it then,” he says.

Ienzo looks up at him. He’s not embarrassed, exactly, but there’s a shyness when he says, “Yes.”

Even goes over to the bed, smooths the quilt a little. “It will be odd to not have you around.”

“I’m not far. Just downstairs.”

“Even so. I only just got used to being in this place again. I feel I am growing much more slowly than you.” He isn’t sure why he admits this. But isn’t it the truth? He’s so stagnant. 

“It isn’t a race,” he says, and offers a small smile.

“No.” He sits, considering the young man. “You know, when Ansem first decided to bring you here, we reacted poorly. How on earth could we expect a child to thrive in this environment? Moreover, how could we care for one? But I think you brought a life into this place. An ambition. You were a reminder of the future we sought to create. You still are.” How’s that for earnest? But he means it.

Ienzo sits down near him. He looks at his hands, the clothing in his lap. “Our relationship has been… strained. Yours and mine.”

“I’m aware.”

“We reformed… and you were gone. I know now, of course, why you did it. But things were overwhelming enough that I… I worried I’d lost the Even I’d known for good.” It feels like he’s wanted to say this for some time. 

Even drops his eyes. “It is… tempting to blame it all on the thrall of darkness, but that is reductive. This whole process has revealed flaws in me that I once valued as strengths. I was selfish, devious, cruel. And I had no way of stomaching the emotional rot it would dredge up. Ienzo.” He takes his hand. “I am proud of the person you’ve become. Even though I cannot flatter myself and take credit for it.”

He blushes a little. “That is very kind.”

“I’m glad the cards have fallen the way they did. We have all played our parts to perfection, including those of us who are surprises. Only now there is no more script.” Even brushes a strand of hair out of Ienzo’s face. “I do so wish you would let me cut your bangs.” 

A small smile. “I’m afraid you must get over it.”

He laughs a little. “I suppose. You’re grown now, making your own decisions.” He takes a breath. He can’t help himself. The boy is just so  _ young _ . “Are you sure this is what you want?”

His turn to look away. “Yes,” he says. “I… I do love him. And I want a future with him. This is part of that.”

Even knows it’s the truth, but still it’s odd to hear him say it out loud. “Better him than a stranger, I suppose.”

“A stranger would not be able to understand.”

The boy has a point. Nobody else will be able to grasp the convoluted past of his. “No. You’re right. I’m glad you’ve found what happiness you could.”

His blush reddens further. “Thank you. I am too. I will still be around.”

“And I should like to see this place sometime.” More than covert spying.

“Of course.” He picks up his things. “I should head back. We have plans for lunch.” He’s almost at the threshold.

“Ienzo?”

He turns. “Yes?”

“Is it very strange, to be in love?”

He barely hesitates. “No. It is as natural as breathing.”

* * *

Even finds himself considering what that means.

Loving is supposedly natural--regardless of what kind of love it is.

Why does he find it difficult?

(Is he worth loving? A desiccated wretch like him? What can he possibly give to anyone in any capacity?)

He thinks about his late spouse, if that was a real love. Of his biological son. Surely he must’ve loved them--their departure wrecked him so. He must love Ienzo similarly, right? A sort of paternity? What of the others? The webs between them are all so complicated--Demyx is right, the power dynamics at play are so strange.

Is it possible to make amends? Is he worthy?

He recalls the conversation with Ansem. How the man claims he only causes pain.

(Isn’t he right?)

He feels stuck.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even realizes he can no longer live in isolation, and attempts to mend the bonds with those around him.

Stuck.

Like a record, he repeats the same things over and over again. None of his experiments are promising, none of the reports he writes insightful. He’s getting purely nothing done. Months are passing, he’s losing time--he fears he’s losing more than that. Is this depression? Insanity? Something isn’t right.

He’s trying to distill a compound one of these nothing days when the beaker suddenly shatters, spattering his arm with caustic materials. Despite precautions and gear, he’s rather injured. As gently as possible, he picks the glass out of the wound, washes away all of the compound, wraps it securely. It stings terrifically, adding to his patchwork of burns. Could he stitch this himself? Absolutely. Should he, when someone else could fix it easily?

He meets Demyx in the hall near their apartment; the young man is toting a laundry basket. “Good. You’re here.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’s wrong? What did you do to yourself?”

“What indeed. Either way I need your help.”

Something like smugness leaches into his green eyes. Even regrets coming down; but he’s already here. “Come on. Sit down.” He brings Even inside, reaching for the medic bag by the door. “Is it bleeding? Can I see it?”

What about sterility? “Aren’t you going to wash your hands first?”

He huffs a little. “I already cleaned them with magic.” He takes Even’s hand and examines the wound. “Ouch. How’d you do that?”

He watches with something like fascination as the boy heals him, easing the pain and chemical burns without even touching it. He’s sure the boy’s hands are actually clean (or hopes) but there’s something disquieting about the lack of gloves. The wound doesn’t scar; not that it would’ve been noticeable anyway. “A beaker got too hot, and burst. These things happen. All the glass I work with is so old, it’s only a matter of time. I would’ve tended to it myself, but…”

“I’m sure you would’ve,” Demyx says. “How’s that feel?”

“Better. Faster than what I could’ve done. You have my thanks.”

Rather generously (and petulantly?) the boy adds, “It’s not too late for you to learn.”

He scoffs. “What, old dog, new tricks?” Even asks. “I’ve studied enough medicine. This might surprise you, but I don’t exactly have… the proper countenance.”

He laughs. “It’s okay.”

He rolls down his sleeve. “I’ve enough of bodies, I think.” Enough of the physical sicknesses, the injuries, the neediness. 

“Yeah?”

“The human body is so… fragile. So fallible.”

“I know,” Demyx says. “Preaching to the choir.”

Even considers the boy, the drollness of his expression. He knows he’s changed, but is Demyx really passionate enough about this to go through with it? It’s a lot of draining, thankless work if one’s heart is not truly in it. “You’re still… gung-ho, about this, then?”

He blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I recall once upon a time you were quite flighty.”

His expression hardens, and his tone is somewhat sharp when he says, “Then isn’t now.”

Great. The last thing he needs is to alienate one of the few people who can tolerate him. (To think, there’d be a day when he’d value Demyx’s presence.) “I… apologize if that remark offended you.”

He kneels by the hearth and begins building a fire. “It didn’t.”

He’s absolutely lying. “Yet your tone is rather cold.”

Demyx doesn’t miss a beat. “As is yours. As is all of you, actually.”

“Cold like ice?” Arguing, volatility, is so easy. Why isn’t anything else?

He looks up. “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”

“I think we’re far beyond tailoring responses for tact.”

“Are we?” Demyx asks. He crumples some paper and lights it with a match. Even flinches, fighting hard against the memory ( _Buh-bye._ ). The boy’s still talking. “For a while I thought we were getting closer. But you’re still hiding yourself away, so. I don’t know what that means. You can go, if you want. Your arm should be fine.”

So he’s noticed. Someone’s noticed, and cared. But this doesn’t make him feel any better. Because like everything else he’s tossed this boy aside too. “...Quite. Thank you.”

“Sure,” he says dully, still in front of the fire.

Maybe he can salvage this. “All these… words about the linearity of progress, of healing. You must realize that this isn’t as easy for me as it is for you.”

His head snaps up. “It’s not easy. It’s never easy. Not for a minute. You don’t know the half of it.”

Made it worse again. 

His eyes are so piercing. “You know I take meds? We both do. Otherwise the trauma literally makes me unable to function. And I’ve heard Ienzo talk about what happened in the basement, and what happened at Castle Oblivion. I know, Even. I know what you did to him, and to Ansem.”

A sharp pain shoots through him, the first in a long while; but it quickly withers. Of course. They’re so close… Ienzo must have told him everything. A wave of shame eclipses the pain. “You must be very angry with me, then.”

“Ienzo forgives you. So I do too.” His tone is not at all forgiving. He keeps building the fire.

“You must understand, then. How difficult it is to move on. I see the reminders of it every day.”

“You think I don’t?” Then, a little less harshly, “Even, you can’t keep living like this.”

He feels caught. “I know.” He sits, the weight of his body too much. “I’m aware this is not healthy. Physically or mentally. What am I to do? Burden that boy with the weight of these things I supposedly feel?”

“What about Ansem? Or Aeleus or Dilan? Aren’t they your friends?”

So sharp, yet so naive. ““Friend” is a loose term.”

He’s facing Even now. “What about me, then? I’m not... I’m not him, Even. I’m not Demyx.”

Another pain comes back. Just as suddenly, “Yet you wear the same face and have the same name.”

“You know what I mean.” He bites his lip. “Do you want to get better? Or are you just running from anything meaningful?”

Even feels his face flush. (He’s right.) “Part of it is… I hope… practicality,” he admits. “I recall that, for you… the intensity of your returning humanity pushed you to the edge. I do not wish to experience that. I do not need my existence to be so… precarious.” No need to worry anyone about a wretch like him.

The boy sighs. “Is this about Ansem? About when he tried to--”

“I do not wish to be a burden. On anyone. I do not crave… pity.”

“You can’t stay in this middle state forever, though. You need to let your heart grow.”

He looks away.

“I can help you,” Demyx says. “I know how it feels, Even. I think I might be the only one.”

He has a point. He realizes he’s been avoiding asking Demyx about that experience. But why? To spare himself pain? “Was it moreso… memories, or feelings?”

He shrugs. “The memories came… later,” he says. “It was… anxiety more than anything. And nightmares. And then… I…” 

Fear so like Even’s own. “You fell in love?” he asked dryly.

“Well, yeah. It’s about… seeing and being seen, or whatever. When I realized he loved me back, it… it hurt. I thought I was having a heart attack. But I don’t think it necessarily has to be romantic. You have to… decide to be human.” Even’s just asking himself the question when the boy adds, “Don’t you want that?”

“I like to think so.” But does he? Is it worth the pain? It’s already so potent. And if the trauma makes them unable to function… what will it do to Even? He needs to be of use. He can’t fall apart. 

“It’s better than being numb all the time.”

“Worth the anxiety that makes you unable to function?”

Irritation flickers across his face. “Even, I don’t know, okay? I can’t make this better for you. I can’t convince you to want something when you so clearly don’t.”

The anger surprises him; but why should it? Demyx is being so earnest, and he’s stepping on it.

He lifts his chin. “You want to be miserable and alone, that’s fine by me.”

Even isn’t angry in return; he’s just tired. “Well. If that’s how you feel.”

* * *

He drags himself back to his lab. That bastion. There are still shards of glass on the table, but he doesn’t sweep them up. He sits, heavily. Shivers. Debates giving into this growing urge to break down. What good would it possibly do?

Even can’t live like this.

Vexen could live in isolation, could thrive in it. So could Even-of-the-past, to a lesser degree. But now?

Now.

He wants to change--or claims to want it, anyway. Again that boy--so underestimated--managed to gut him. He’s running away, hiding, closing himself off. How can he possibly make things better doing this? Not for himself, but anyone? He can’t do high quality work if his mental health worsens. No wonder he’s gotten absolutely nothing accomplished.

He needs someone.

It’s a cold realization, colder than the room he’s in. He needs connection. He is not special, not an outlier. He stands, as though physically propelled by this thought, and crosses over to the window. It’s snowing. A full year gone by and… nothing. Something in his throat aches.

To give in, or not.

The lab door creaks. Even knows without looking who it is. “Hey,” Demyx says. “Listen, I--”

The words fall from him. “You were right.”

“What?” he sounds shocked. The pain is worsening. He feels something like a helplessness, viewing a storm on the horizon. _It’s going to happen whether you want it to or not._

“Does your hearing need to be checked? You were right.” He crosses his arms as though to physically keep it together. “You can’t do algebra, yet you have a better understanding of humanity than I after years of study. It is… galling.”

“Uh… sorry? I guess?” He hears Demyx take a few steps.

“I’ve been making excuses. I’ve been… lazy. I’ve been trying to save myself from this… remorse, because I don't want any of you see me fall apart. Why is it you care, Demyx? After all my belittling of you?”

“That was years ago.”

“Does it matter?” Abuse is abuse is abuse.

Even hears him sigh. He feels a hand touch his arm and is immensely grateful for the curtain of his hair.

“I feel… stuck. I didn’t realize… that this feeling is not productive.” It’s hard to say this out loud.

Gently, “You can change that.”

So certain. He nods.

“Besides, we’re… we’re sort of family, right? What other reason do I need?”

It’s this that breaks him, that forces the as-yet-fought tears in his eyes to run over. Even doesn’t deserve kindness.

In his periphery, Demyx leans against the windowsill. “It’s hard to be vulnerable. I know. Especially after what we all went through. It fucking sucks, right? That to survive all that, now we have to deal with this…”

“...Psychological consequence?”

“I was going to say “bullshit”, but that works too.”

He tries to collect himself. “I forget what it is to… care,” Even says. “But isn’t that what’s been missing? From this… atonement? I can feel passionate about numbers, about the science, but I haven’t seen beyond that. So you’re right. It’s time to shore up. I should at the very least be the bigger grown-up than you.”

He laughs. “I know you didn’t have many options, but… thanks for letting me be the one to deliver the replica.”

“Thanks for following through. For once.”

“I’m going to hug you now.”

“I’d rather you didn't.”

“Too late.” Demyx squeezes him once, lightly, around the waist. It’s so unfamiliar, to be touched; he almost doesn’t know how to react. Then, equally as overwhelming, “Come have dinner with us.”

Perhaps it is for this reason that he says, “...Alright. I… it is rather cold in here, isn’t it? I should get that looked at.” He turns his face away, mops at his eyes. “You’re not half-bad.”

“Back at you.”

* * *

Let the heart grow.

How?

He’s rebuilt this tenuous connection between himself and Demyx--but it’s the newest, has undergone the least stress. There’s so much more he has to deal with.

Decide to be human. As if it’s so simple.

Isn’t it? Embrace these feelings, rather than reject them, even if it’s pain. Would it be so bad to come apart? To let himself be helped? It’s going to be necessary. All this repression does not bode well for him, physically and mentally. He can’t afford to die young (relatively speaking), not when he has so much to make up for.

He takes it in turn to try and socialize again, to spend time in the communal spaces. 

“It’s good to see you here,” Aeleus admits. 

“I’m afraid my pride’s taken a good beating,” Even says. “Ienzo’s miscreant gave me a talking-to about isolating myself. I figure he’s right.” He shakes his head.

“Demyx was always perceptive,” he says.

“As I’m finding out. At least there’s that. I suppose Ienzo could have done much worse for himself.”

He chuckles a little. He’s still working on some kind of puzzle, spread willy-nilly on the floor. “The constellations,” he says. “I’m struggling to remember them. They’ve been different for so long.”

“You and your astrology.” Even rolls his eyes.

“Many things impact a heart.”

“Apparently.”

Aeleus places his piece at last. “I found that little cat of theirs up here and nearly panicked. I thought it had messed it all up. Ten thousand pieces--I might’ve cried.”

“Only to start again?” Even asks dryly. 

He shrugs. “It’s a good way to use the mind. My work has been so physical lately. And so tedious. But at least if we can get the heating fixed, we’ll be warmer.”

“Is it work you enjoy?”

“I like being of use,” Aeleus says. “What is it you’ve been working on?”

Even shifts a little in the chair. He’s almost out of practice with conversation. “A fool’s errand, I suppose,” he admits. “I… am trying to develop something like an antidepressant. Something to lessen the way trauma impacts the body.”

Aeleus looks up. “That’s hardly foolish. The people here could use that.”

“I hope so. But there’s the sad truth that it must go through clinical trials--and who would trust me?”

“I’d trust you,” Aeleus says. “I’ll be your guinea pig.”

Even scoffs a little. “That’s hardly necessary.”

“I… could use such a thing,” he says quietly. He picks up another tiny piece; in his hands, it’s comically small. 

He frowns. “Was Castle Oblivion very rough on you?”

“It wasn’t… easy. I…” He hesitates. “I do have very intense nightmares.”

“...About what?”

“Any number of things.” Aeleus keeps his eyes on the puzzle. “I was not able to protect Zexion, or you. I do not know how he passed--but my mind likes to torture me with the possibilities. That scar…” He shudders. “Nor… you as well.”

“I’m not sure if it would help--but I have both answers.”

Aeleus looks back up. 

As gently as possible, Even explains.

For a moment, there’s a crack in his normally stoic expression, something like shock and horror; Even’s again unsure if he’s caused yet more damage. But then Aeleus nods slowly. “I… see. That must’ve been terrifying for you.”

“I suppose. I’m not sure if my mind is not yet prepared to process it… but I do not nightmare much. Perhaps because I don’t sleep so deeply.”

“You were always a restless sleeper,” he says dully. “Thank you for… telling me. Knowledge is closure.”

Even nods. “I do hope yours wasn’t nearly so brutal.”

Aeleus shrugs. “Brutality is relative, I think. We… we unsure of why you were so injured.”

“Yes, well. The scars aren’t so pretty, but I never cared much about outward appearances.”

Aeleus considers the puzzle in front of him. For a moment he says nothing.

“I… suppose I am softening,” Even says. “We must… have to be here. Otherwise, why would we have all pulled through?”

He gives a small smile. “You’ve made progress.”

“Very, very slowly.”

Aeleus takes his hand. “Better than not at all… unlike some people here.”

It’s unusual for Aeleus to be so suggestive. “You mean Ansem?”

“I’m not sure what it would take to reach him. I… have tried.”

“I have too.” Even frowns. 

“But you can’t help those who don’t want it. No matter what you do.” He admires his handiwork. “Shall we go get some lunch?”

* * *

It’s this Even thinks about later that night, his head pounding. He scans textbooks, trying to understand. Perhaps it’s not a loss of will to live in the literal sense--but rather, the emotional or spiritual. Medicine can’t touch it. Only determination and a careful hand.

He hears his door bang open. It’s much too late for visitors; something must be wrong. He looks over his shoulder. There’s Ienzo, in pajamas and a dressing gown. In the poor lighting, it’s hard to see his face. “Out for a nighttime stroll?” he asks. “Or did you have a lovers’ quarrel?” Things seem much too perfect between the two boys. It’s only a matter of time.

Ienzo’s voice has a jagged edge to it when he says, “You lied.”

Oh.

Of course. He’s processing.

Gently, he asks, “What is this about?”

He’s breathing hard. “You lied to me. About Ansem.”

This is going to hurt; Even can feel it. “Yes, I know. I thought you did, too.” He swivels his stool. 

Ienzo comes into the light. He looks manic, his face pink. “I want to know why. Why did you all do it to me? Did you think I would not understand? That I--” He’s tearing up.

Where to begin unraveling? How to help this boy? Slowly, he gathers his words. “It is… handy to blame it all on Xehanort. Truthfully, I like to think that it came from a place of protection. But that is all bunk. It we were to separate you from Ansem’s influence, then we could continue our work, unfettered. Simply… if you had nothing but us, you would rely on us, and comply with us. I cannot overstate it--as soon as it happened, I regretted it, Ienzo, because I saw how devastated you were. But by then it was too late to undo the damage. And I was a weak and selfish man. I really did believe we were better off without him.” No point telling him about the bungled escape. It will make no difference. 

The boy says nothing; he seems stricken. Even’s never seen him this upset; not in a long, long while.

“It is one of my biggest mistakes,” he admits. He clucks his tongue. “I cared, but I didn’t care enough, in the right way. I should’ve--as soon as we did what we did, I should’ve tried to retrieve him. Or at the very least, tried to take you out of that situation. Let you grow up normally, and not become a stunted husk. But I didn’t. I… I held my work above all, and in the process, destroyed what was most important.” Called, tempted by darkness, a temptation that severed all. “Does that answer your question?”

He’s still breathing hard, tears running disjointedly down his face.

“I do not expect your forgiveness,” Even says softly. “I do not deserve it, either, after all the suffering I’ve retroactively put you through. But know that I… I am trying to atone. To grow. It is so… difficult--Ienzo?”

A sob escapes him; he seems surprised by it, and covers his mouth. Even stands, to console him, but Ienzo flinches away from him. “You are not well. Sit.”

He obeys, perching on the cot and hugging himself tightly. Even takes a deep breath and chances sitting next to him.

“Pain hides in pockets,” Even says. “Compartmentalizes. You knew of our betrayal, but for whatever reason, only now are you processing what it meant to you.” He exhaled. “If you wish for us to have no further contact--” Though how will he go on?

Ienzo unwittingly solves this dilemma. “I don’t wish that,” he says. “I… I want to trust you. If only because the thought of holding onto this is too much.” His voice is full of glass. 

How woeful, to see him like this again. Even feels a dull pain of his own, mirrored in his chest and throat. “Then don’t.”

“You’re all I knew.”

“...I know.” This is stirring up all the guilt, already so close to the surface. 

“I wanted to please you. I would've done anything to impress you.” He shakes his head. He’s trembling. “Once it all started… I never wanted people to get hurt.”

He sighs. “Nor did I. But then… I convinced myself that it was all alright, not only because it was in the interest in something greater, but because our victims supposedly consented. To be more colloquial, denial is one hell of a drug.”

He’s still so distraught. But he hasn't left. That has to mean something.

“The only person you owe forgiveness is yourself,” Even says softly, trying to meet the boy’s eyes. He takes Ienzo’s hand and, when he doesn’t pull it away, gives it a squeeze. “Remember that.”

Slowly, Ienzo nods. 

“He…” His words are failing him. 

He blinks. His eyes are swollen. 

Knowledge is closure. Lying won’t help. “He threatened you.”

He squints. “Ansem?”

“No. Xehanort.”

Ienzo doesn’t seem sure whether or not to accept this; Even can’t blame him. 

Tell the truth. He was aware it immediately contradicts what he's just said. “He… if I did not do what he said, he was going to…”

A mixture of surprise and apprehension fills his face. “But he always--” A pause, then realization. “I was a tool to him.”

“It’s what I was afraid of.” He tries to collect himself. “In that moment you gave him what he needed. I feared he would mold you into what he wanted.”

“Didn’t he?” A pause. “Didn’t he do the same to you?”

“Not quite. It was easier to be numb, to let the darkness take hold… than to claw my way out. I’m so selfish.”

“You did it for me.”

“There was still no need to lie to you. No need to retraumatize you. Those lies took over your heart, your mind. I am… I’m so sorry, Ienzo.”

“Thank you,” the boy says softly. 

Even offers him a handkerchief. Ienzo wipes at his face. 

“I suppose I always sort of knew,” he admits. “I remember… I remember you tried to save me.” He crumples the cloth in one hand. “When they took our hearts.”

“He’d promised me he wouldn’t touch you. I should have known better. And then…” It’s hard to admit these things, harder still to keep them inside. “When I woke as Vexen… all my ties to everyone were shattered. I felt nothing for you.”

“I felt nothing either.”

“And because I felt nothing… all the easier to not do anything. But that doesn’t justify it.” He can feel his own emotions rising, something like pain. “Child, I--”

“It’s alright,” Ienzo says softly. 

“It isn’t. It will never be. You have to carry these things with you for the rest of your life. You could’ve--”

“Don’t you?” He’s still crying. “Suffering for me will not negate it, Even. For either of us. But we have… we have one another. We have time. I do not… want to spend much longer agonizing about my past. Not when I have a future. Which… because of what you did… will be a long one. Without darkness.” His voice is a bit steadier now. “Don’t forget I pushed you away too. I am not innocent in this.”

“You were a child--”

“No. I am so frustrated. You and Ansem both believe I can do no wrong. Even, you were in meetings with me. You know the things I did, the things I set in motion. The people who’ve--died because I decided it must be.” He touches his breastbone. “That will always weigh on my conscience. So, I’m sure, will your own offenses. But…”

“It can be fixed,” he says, to himself.

“Yes. Much… like us.” He shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them. “I am… rather tired. I believe I gave Demyx a fright, running out like this. We can discuss this further when we’ve had some sleep.”

“...Sure.” He feels something rising in him. “You’re… so young to be so wise.”

Ienzo turns a little. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. Some would say too much. Good night, Even.” He shuts the door behind him.

For a moment Even sits reeling. He feels something tighten in him, harsh and sharp and painful, like those moments of collapse but far worse. He wonders, briefly, if it might be his time--the years and years of stress and malnourishment wreaking havoc on his body--before he remembers what Demyx said.

He isn’t dying. He’s becoming.

* * *

Even wakes suddenly, unaware he’s blacked out. He’s slumped awkwardly on his cot, his neck wrenched painfully. There’s a film of sweat on his skin, his head is pounding, and the muscles in his chest ache like he’s been kicked there.

He sits up. Considers.

Things feel… odd. As though they’ve shifted. It’s not completely unpleasant. He supposes it may be considered a wholeness, despite the guilt still remaining. 

He’s done it, then.

Humanity lays over him heavily, leaving behind it a sort of determination to set things right.

He gathers the hair out of his face. Wipes away the sweat.

It’s time to begin.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that Even is human, he continues to attempt to mend the bonds of those closest to him.

But this determination doesn’t make it easy. There are nightmares now, memories. It’s still hard to be around fires, to strike his Bunsen burners. Any noise resembling a snap incapacitates him; Demyx unknowingly does it once in casual conversation and unexpectedly finds himself caring for a distraught Even.

Humanity’s sharpened things, good and bad. He feels more and less able. But at least there’s consistency. At least he can get himself out of bed.

He assists Ienzo as much as he can with the boy’s memorial work. Offers advice, counsels about acidity of soil, gives whatever he can. He helps Aeleus too, in his repairs. It is soothing, to do things with his hands, even though he’s mostly useless in that regard. 

He tries to mend things with Dilan.

It’s hard to say what the man does. Unlike the others, he’s not quite so transparent. He disappears for hours at a time, claims it’s guard duty: “someone has to do it.” But is it?

So Even looks for him. He does not bother trying Dilan’s phone; he knows he will not answer. He finds him in a covered courtyard, surrounded by beheaded training dummies, but he’s actually sitting, meditating. Even turns to leave. 

“You’ve already disrupted the peace,” Dilan says, his eyes shut. “What is it you want, Even?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“I can recognize the sound of your gait at fifty meters. Any of yours, actually.” He opens his eyes and smirks. “I did receive extensive training, you know.”

“I suppose I... would like to hash things out. As it were.”

“Must you?”

“I’m afraid so. We’re stuck here for the foreseeable future. I’d rather there not be more tension than is necessary.”

He scowls. 

“Is this really about that impact statement?”

Dilan sighs. He points to the ground in front of him. It’s rather unbecoming, but Even sits in the dirt, folding his legs under him. “We’ve all prattled on in our own ways about guilt,” he says. “No point going into it further.”

“Yet?”

“...Yet.” His lip curls. “I spend a lot of time in this town. Cataloging, observing. I know Ienzo means well, and yes, a memorial is only right. But… the psychological wounds of this town… have scarred unevenly. Things need to rip open, to heal well. I fear in that pain… we might get more than we bargained for. Revenge. Ostracization. I like to believe it’s not myself I’m worried about.”

“...The boys?”

“...Quite.” He knots his fingers. “Funny. I never thought I would give a wit about Demyx.”

“Me either. But here we are.”

“He’s changed. Gives me hope that perhaps I can too. A vain hope, but hope nonetheless.”

“If he can, anyone can.”

He chuckles. Then, sobering. “Tell me something, Even.”

“Of course.”

“How did you decide to go against the New Organization?”

He bides his time a little. Picks some lint off of the knee of his slacks. “Guilt. Simply. I saw Ienzo--whole, human, reeling--and it all came crashing in. Without the darkness, the pull on my mind was not so absolute. As I was recovering… Xigbar came to me. Offered me the job. How could I say no? After all, I was nothing but loyal in the past. Isa caught wind of it and helped me plan.”

“So simply?”

“So simply.” He smiles. “Dilan, I love convolution as much as the next person, but it’s not always the best choice.”

“All I did was sit here.”

“You were incredibly injured. As I’ve heard.”

His jaw twitches. “Sora is a brutal adversary. That’s all I care to say on the matter. My bones still ache when it rains.”

There’s a few moments of silence. Even looks at the tile floor, the dirt. “Dilan, I… wish things were not so difficult between us. But I’ve no insight into what you’ve been thinking, or feeling. I don’t know how to fix it. We’re alike, you and I. Prideful. Furious at the drop of a hat.”

“But your love for Ienzo helped you through. I’m afraid I have no such bonds. I love the boy, of course, but I had no patience for him when it mattered. Even before I was a Nobody… well. He was a pet. A very intelligent one, but still. I don’t think I saw him as human.”

He blinks. “No?”

“Well, a person of no consequence. A thing I could set aside when I was done with him. But you once had something outside of your career. I never did.”

This is news to him. “Never? No family? No… beloved?”

“One tends to be ostracized when one is different,” Dilan says simply. 

Even wants to ask him what he means; but he also fears this is too personal. Yet, they’ve known each other twenty-some years. What is too personal? “Unfortunately.”

“I never made the time for anything other than the most brief affair. And I thought I understood _love_.” He chuckles. “We all thought we knew everything.”

Even smiles. “The older I get, the less I feel I know.”

His smirk fades, though. “When we all returned, I found the notion of you challenging Ansem to be frankly absurd. But I should’ve listened to what you had to say. You’ve grown; he rots. You’ve taken an active role, he waffles. He’ll give the boys meaningless words and pats on the head, and true, words were never your strong suit. But it’s you they feel comfortable coming to, in the middle of the night.”

“No need to stroke my ego.”

“As if I would?” He raised an eyebrow. “Why would I need to impress you, Even? You no longer have power over me.”

“It is liberating, to let go of such meaningless things,” he admits. 

“I’ve been doing more than beheading sacks of sand,” he says slowly.

“Like?”

“I’m surveying the town. Seeing what needs to be fixed, drafting plans as to how that might be possible. I hope to present such work to whoever might be in charge--whether it’s that cursed committee, or an actual leader.” Dilan meets Even’s eyes. “Radiant Garden might look pretty, but it’s all rather rough. Cobbled together. Won’t exist in the long term unless infrastructure is in place.”

“That is very humble work.”

“It is nice, to use this part of myself again. Reminds me of who I used to be.” A small smile. “That report… made me realize all I’ve done to this town, and many others. I’d kept that guilt at an arm’s length.”

“And you became defensive.” Even nods. “A natural response.”

“A foolish one.” He scoffs. He points at Even. “Easier to blame you than to actually deal with it.”

He laughs a little. 

“In which case, I should be thanking you. A needed wakeup call. Along with Ansem’s… difficulties. We’ve spoken a little, since then. It is hard to be gracious with him.”

“You were never the submissive type. But… help must be wanted.”

“...Yes.” He looks down. “Even, I do believe we have more in common than we thought.”

“I should hope so.”

* * *

But all that happens isn’t completely good.

He’s elbow-deep in distillation when his phone rings, deep in his pocket. Usually when someone calls him instead of merely messaging, it’s all business. (In fact, he can’t remember ever receiving a call just to chit-chat.) He sees it’s Demyx. “Boy, I’m in the middle of something. What do you want?”

His voice on the line is very strained when he says, “I think I’ve been poisoned.”

Even freezes, almost dropping the test tube he has in clamps. He sets it down delicately. “Describe your symptoms to me.”

“It just feels…” He’s slurring a little, and if Even doesn’t know better he’d say the boy is drunk. “Burning, my muscles are all tight. It feels like…”

“Come down here at once. No, better yet, I’ll have Dilan get you. Turn on your location.” A handy, if unsettling, feature of the phones. His heart is starting to beat fast and hard. He can’t have the boy collapsing on him--not again. As soon as he convinces Dilan to go intercept him, he digs through his stores for antidote, and then further compounds to build one, should he need to.

They’ve just been talking about revenge.

Why Demyx? But then, Even realizes he’s something of the public face of the castle, doing what he does. The townsfolk must not realize he was never an apprentice.

Before he can consider this further, he sees Dilan sidling in with the boy in his arms. He gestures to the cot. “Here. Set him over here.”

Demyx’s eyes are rolling a bit. “He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness,” Dilan explains. “Has been for about ten minutes.”

Never good. He takes the antidote, rolls up Demyx’s sleeve, and stabs the boy. No time to fuss with prepping if he’s that far gone. His eyes seem to come into better focus. “There you are.” He starts an IV, properly this time. “How do you feel?”

He’s dazed, and sweaty, and from the touch alone Even can feel the fever. His heartbeat is erratic. “Hurts,” he says.

“Where?” Can this help?

“Everywhere,” he mumbles.

Not lucid enough to recount what’s going on. Well. Even can solve problems. The generic antidote will keep him alive, negate the worst damage. He simply has to act fast. “I’m sorry, I’m hesitant to give you anything while we’re trying to get you to metabolize this nasty business. I’m going to take some blood, alright? Let’s see if I can’t figure out what this is. In the meantime, I'm just going to keep a steady antidote drip.”

“‘Kay,” he says. The word is barely intelligible. He’s shivering, rather violently. Likely had they found him much later he would’ve fallen into convulsions. Even has trouble getting a vein, but manages to get some blood at last. He wraps the boy in a blanket and rushes everything over to his workstation.

“I should tell Ienzo,” he says. If that doesn’t get Demyx’s attention, nothing will. 

It works; he comes around, partially. “No. I’ll do it after.”

"You're very ill. You'll probably be very ill for the next few days." He examines the sample. Even isn’t sure whether or not to be relieved that he can see the issue right away. “Nasty business” doesn’t quite cover it; it’s frankly a miracle that Demyx is as stable as he is. Neurotoxins are always frightening. As quickly as he can, he starts building onto the base antidote.

“That bad?” he asks. Good. Keeping him talking is good.

"I'm still doing research. But you're lucky you recognized it and got to me when you did." He digs into his toxicology thesaurus, searching for the molecule; he knows he’s seen it before. It takes much too long before he has something workable, something body safe. In the midst of all this, he hears, “Even?”

His head snaps up. “Yes?”

He’s still breathing hard, but it’s not quite as labored as before. Good signs. "Will I die if I go to sleep?"

"No, you're rebounding enough. Get some rest. You'll need it."

He’s just distilling it all down when Dilan returns from notifying the cavalry. 

“How’d he take it?” Even asks. 

“About as well as you’d think. Looked like I’d kicked him in the groin. I had to all but restrain him from coming down here himself.”

“Ienzo’s knowledge of chemistry is not nearly up to par for something like this.” He watches, tense, to see how the serum will react to the poison on the plate. “His anxiety is much too potent.”

“And Demyx?”

“Holding steady. Asleep.” It’s all breaking down; what Even needs to see. He draws a couple of milliliters into a syringe. "It was quite alarming to see. I haven't yet gotten the story. I think you may be right, Dilan. Someone clearly has ire for us." He takes Demyx’s hand and injects the serum into the port; the boy blinks stiffly.

“What…”

"A more specific antidote. Go back to sleep."

He seems more aware now, though still slightly drunk. “What was it?”

Even sits next to him. It’s his body; he has a right to know. "A type of neurotoxin that causes your cells to stop accepting water. Essentially, it would've been a very quick, very painful death from dehydration. Not to worry, I've made a serum which seems to be combatting it. Your vitals are already stabilizing."

Even can’t read the expression on his face. "She must've known."

The perpetrator? “Who?”

"The person who did this. About my old powers--" He tries to sit up and flinches in pain; Even pushes him back down. 

"Don't move. I figured you, of all people, would understand this part of palliative care."

His stress level seems to be rising. Even needs to de-escalate; he doesn’t want to risk giving Demyx anything else while his liver grapples with all this poison. "Why else would she use a poison to dry me out?"

"Who?" he repeats. A name, a description--

"The woman, the one who--" He goes very pale, his eyes watering. "I'm going to throw up."

Even gives him a wastebasket to be sick into; Dilan flinches just the slightest. This is actually a good thing. He’s getting rid of it. 

Wearily, Demyx looks up. "She gave me tea. After I healed her. I thought the cut was too clean, that she acted weird--"

He sighs. "You gave her the benefit of the doubt. As any competent physician would." He pauses. "Do you remember where she lived? We should let the committee know. The last thing we need is another maniac on the loose."

He lays back down. It takes a moment, but finally he begins telling them; Dilan writes it all down in a text, committee-bound. There’s a chilling detail in it; the boy must be reflexively calling upon his reconnaissance training. He describes a home in the residential district, one that’s slowly being repopulated. He actually talks himself to sleep. Even gives him more of the serum. Even rechecks his vitals, notes that he’s stabilizing well. “He’ll pull through just fine,” he says. “But it’s going to be a tough few days. We may as well put him in his own bed.”

“We?” Dilan mutters. “Leon got back to me. They’re investigating.” Dilan hefts the boy back in his arms, carefully managing all the fluid. Even takes more of the medicine with them. It does give him a level of anxiety, to give him so much of something literally untested, but the boy seems to be responding well. The regular stuff won’t cut it.

When they arrive to the apartment, Ienzo’s frantic. He’s actually unable to speak, for the first time Even’s witnessed in a long while. It takes a beat to adjust. “He’s recovering well,” Even assures him. “It’ll be… unpleasant, for a while, but he should pull through without much trouble.”

He nods once. They settle Demyx into bed, let him rest. Even makes Ienzo some tea. The whole place is neat as a pin, the selection of brews rather… eclectic, most of them Even’s never heard of. He looks over his shoulder, towards the bed, and sees Ienzo hovering over Demyx, his hand outstretched--

“Don’t touch him without gloves,” Even says. “He’s sweating bullets and I’m not sure if it’s communicable that way.”

He looks startled. 

“You wittering over him won’t help. Come sit down.”

Ienzo obeys. He’s utterly defeated. Something about this all has broken his spirit, not that Even can blame him. He gives the boy the mug, which has an odd orangey smell; Ienzo wrinkles his nose a little. 

“Well I’ve no idea what you wanted. Doesn’t help you fancy yourself a gourmand.”

The joke doesn’t faze him. He takes out his phone. _Do they know who did it?_

“Not yet. They’re investigating. Despite it all, Demyx actually provided a fair amount of detail. Not sure what could take that child out.”

This is the wrong thing to say; Ienzo’s eyes narrow.

“That was… tactless. Excuse me.” He clears his throat. “So this still happens to you, then?”

He exhales, a heavy sound. _Less so since I’ve grown, but needless to say I was NOT expecting Dilan to show up and tell me my partner was poisoned. It will pass. In time._ He pauses, his thumbs hesitating over the bright screen. _Dilan mentioned people seeking revenge--I was far too naive. I thought everyone would just want to move on--_ His eyes are watering as he types, and he makes some spelling errors. _If anyone should be targeted, it’s me. He’s innocent in this._

“They don’t know that.” Even squeezes his knee. “Perhaps this is just one lunatic, and it’s a coincidence.”

Despite the fact that he’s crying, Ienzo’s eyes flash. He begins typing-- _Do you really fucking believe that_ \--before deleting it, though Even has always been good at reading upside down or backwards. 

“Child, I guess not. You know comforting does not come naturally to me.”

Another sigh. _I suppose I should thank you._

“As if I would let him die?”

_ Sometimes I feel I rather take you for granted. _

Even rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter me. Least I could do.”

_I_ \--a significant pause here. _Forgot what the real you was like._

Even blinks. “You mean--”

_You were Vexen most of my life. Hard, calculating._

He scoffs. “And now?”

_ You care again. _

“I am working very hard on that. As you all blather on--it is difficult, to be vulnerable, to allow tenderness. I’m afraid my pride had to take a mighty beating before I began to accept the change.”

He smiles tiredly. _Well I nearly died resisting mine._

“Ah. Don’t remind me.” He gets up. “I’m going to dose your miscreant again. You still want him around, yes?”

His turn to roll his eyes. Even puts his gloves back on and approaches Demyx. His color is a bit better, but he still looks quite ill, and is still sweating. He gives him another push of the antidote.

For a few hours he and Ienzo sit, waiting. The little cat, barely bigger than Even’s palm, hops up and kneads Ienzo’s lap. Ienzo pets it idly. They both answer some messages from the committee, from the others. Demyx seems dead to the world, but best not to disturb him. Even drafts a report of what’s happened; in all this, Aerith arrives, likely informed by the committee. She seems sad; but not at all surprised. Wordlessly, she crosses over to him and begins her own examination. After a few minutes of this, she joins them at the couch.

“He’s breaking it down,” she says in a low voice. “Whatever you made is working about as well as anything I could’ve done. Just keep him hydrated. He’ll feel like shit, but he’ll be fine.” She crosses her arms. “It’s still all… so disturbing to me.”

“No news?” Ienzo asks hoarsely.

“Nothing yet.” She nods once. “I’m going to go see what I can do. This is kind of personal now. He’s my student. I’m supposed to be responsible for him.”

“Like you could’ve guessed what would happen,” Ienzo mumbles.

“This has all been rather surprising,” Even adds. “Our lives are simply not allowed to be peaceful.”

She shrugs. “Let me know how he’s doing, okay?”

After what seems like ages, Demyx finally stirs. Ienzo races over to him and, completely ignoring Even’s last warning, pulls him into an embrace. He knows the truth of their relationship, but it’s odd to see it in motion, to see the actual touch, innocent as it may be. “You scared a few years off my life. Easily. How do you feel?”

His voice is scratchy when he speaks. Even is unsure if he should give them space, or intervene. “Oh, wonderful. I could run a marathon.”

Even appraises the boy, finds his pulse stable. They get him cleaned up, change the sheets, get him back in bed. He’s certain from here Ienzo can handle the basics, and so he tactfully leaves. If he’s being honest, he’s also reeling.

It could’ve been any of them--Ienzo. And it could’ve been so much worse.

This has all exhausted him. He tries to eat the dinner Aeleus made. “...Revenge,” is all Even says when the man enters the room without turning. “What do you think of it?”

But it isn’t Aeleus’s voice that speaks. “Not nearly worth what it costs one.”

Even’s head snaps up. There’s Ansem, his ragged red scarf around his neck, but at least he’s finally trimmed his beard. “I thought you were Aeleus.”

“Not quite.”

He tries to straighten his spine. “If he hadn’t had the foresight to realize what was happening to him, he likely would’ve perished.”

“You complain, but I think you care for the boy.” He smiles. There’s an emptiness to it.

Even turns. “You said you sought revenge on us. On the Organization. Did you mean it so literally?”

“You know me. Ever afraid to get my hands dirty.” He shrugs. “If I had been faced with one of you in the flesh… I’m not sure what would have happened.”

“Do you still feel angry?” Even isn’t sure why he asks.

“I do not get to slowly come into my own like all of you,” he says. “Rather… my self is linear.”

“I’m afraid you’re not making much sense.”

“Being a Nobody cuts one off from the world. I tried to do so voluntarily, with little success. Undoing all that is not nearly so… seamless.”

Even tuts. “It isn’t seamless for me either.”

“...No."

"You used to be so certain."

"As were you. Odd how it happens. All humanity does is make things less clear."

Even frowns. "You think so?"

"...That's my hypothesis, anyway."

He snorts. "Some sound science you have there."

Ansem shrugs. "What do you think of it?"

"Since I've been human…" It takes work to find the words. "The word that comes to mind is "determined." It is a wholeness. Not to say I haven't been suffering the… psychological consequence of it all. Ienzo says I care again. I suppose that is apt. But it all takes some practice."

"...I see. Did you… feel anything?"

"As a Nobody?" He snorts. "Hardly. As you said. Cut off from the world, and all in it." He feels as though he's not saying anything of substance. "Self-forgiveness is… a process. To put it mildly."

Ansem nods slowly. "And have you begun?"

Even blinks. "I… like to think so." It's a realization. "If I don't--"

"What is the point?"

"Precisely." The air is oddly tender. He swallows. "And yourself?"

"It's all so nebulous--"

"What holds you back?" He's not angry, he's just tired. "Your son adores you, and you have three men falling over themselves for your forgiveness. If that isn't external validation, I don't know what is."

Ansem seems startled by this.

Even stands. "I should like to go check on Demyx."

* * *

Where to go from here?

Nothing he says will have an effect on Ansem. That much is clear. The fool is stuck in his own head despite the hands reaching for him. Ienzo, Even, Demyx. But yet… the thought of giving up on him makes Even vaguely nauseous. Why? Ansem surely gave up on him, on them. 

He sits writing a report about Demyx's poisoning. Admittedly it feels good to know this serum helped him, did some good. One life saved. Hundreds to go before he gets back to zero. Thousands.

It doesn't work like that, does it?

He's considering this when he hears a knock at his door. "Enter," he says wearily.

Ansem. "Are you busy?"

Even considers his notebook. "That depends if you have anything interesting to say. Waffling exhausts me."

He nods once. He still looks a bit grizzled. "May I sit?"

"If you must."

He does. "I considered what you said."

"Oh, thank you."

The sarcasm is ignored. "You feel you are who you're meant to be?"

"...Getting there. I suppose. Better than I was." He sets the notebook aside. "What would it take for you to forgive yourself? Emotionally, materially."

"You truly want to know? It's not a barb?"

He nods.

For a moment his eyes flicker back and forth in the middle distance, thinking. "I wish I could be proven wrong."

"About what?"

"Myself. All this. I suppose I want to be told it's not my fault." A frustrated sigh. "But is it? Who gets to decide?"

"Not us, surely," Even says. It's odd to realize. Of course they can't make these decisions; they can barely determine right from wrong. "So why waste your time thinking about it?"

"Not us." He bobs his head.

"One supposes it could all be fate," he adds.

"That we're still alive?"

Even nods. 

"You mentioned this before." He shakes his head and then leans forward on his knees. His body seems to be weighing him down. "Where did you begin?"

"I tried to start with others. But this change didn't take until I decided to begin with myself. Do you want that? Don't consider what everyone else thinks. What do you think? Do you want to change?"

A tremulous silence. Then, "Yes."

"That's the first step, then."

He nods once. "Even?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

The phrase is so absurd; he snorts. "Right. Fat lot of good I ever did you."

"You want to save me. That means something now."

"...Don't make me regret it."


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even and Ansem repair their old friendship, growing closer in an unexpected way. Even's newest research project breaks his stagnation.

It takes time.

Time of conversations, of walks, arguments. Time digging through the muck of their pasts. It is still hard to trust one another; it might always be. But they seem to be getting somewhere, and Even will take somewhere after nowhere.

He tells Ansem about those long twelve years under Xemnas's thumb; about the replicas, Roxas, all they did to make worlds fall. About vain attempts at Kingdom Hearts, about the dissolution of his rapports with Zexion, Lexeaus, and especially Xaldin; the horrors of Castle Oblivion; his own death. He recounts it with a sort of distance, and then rolls up one of his sleeves to show Ansem part of the scars.

"How's that for karmic payback?" he asks dryly.

Ansem examines his arm with a stricken expression. Then, deliberately or not at all, he runs his fingertip along it. "Does it still ail you?"

The touch is unsettling; though why? Even is feeling something unfamiliar. Discomfort? Uncertainty?

Something else entirely? He was never good at _feelings._

"Not so much," he says. "Though most of the flesh is numb. You may get some pleasure from the fact that I was first to die."

Ansem doesn't comment on this. "And this devastation is… total?"

"All but my face, hands, throat, and feet. I suppose I should be grateful for that--hard to do delicate work if one cannot feel one's fingers." He can feel the blood in his face. "My body does not matter, so long as it does not collapse on me."

"At our age vanity is just that," he agrees. "I am… sorry."

He barks an awkward laugh. "What for?"

"None deserve to die so violently."

"Blame Axel's flair for the dramatic. A simple slice to the jugular would have been sufficient." 

There are a few beats of silence. Ansem taps the tips of his fingers together, restlessly. “And the others?”

“How did we die?”

“Is that too… voyeuristic to ask?”

“I don’t believe so.” Even sighs. “Xaldin and Demyx were both felled by Sora, Lexeaus by Riku, Zexion by… Axel’s machinations. I’m afraid it’s all rather violent. But it was necessary, to be whole. Seems to go against the grain.”

“It does,” he agrees. 

“Things seem to make less and less sense to me the longer I live.”

Ansem chuckles. “That’s how it seems. Wisdom is merely… negative learning.”

* * *

Months, and months, and months--

He and Ansem seem to be developing a warmer rapport. It is easier to be with one another, to be frank. Something like their old friendship peers through the cracks. It gives Even hope, for the first time in a long, long while. Hope that they might yet be saved. Things warm between the rest of them, as well. The talk is not so dreadfully existential. This is helped considerably by the two boys; Ienzo’s dry humor and Demyx’s easygoing nature are encouraging. The idea of all having dinner together is no longer so awkward, but rather something to look forward to.

When possible, Even helps Ienzo with his memorial project for their victims, in its final draft. One spring day, the boy presents it to them, explains at length what it means; the symbolism of flowers, the presentation of their records, the histories of those impacted by what they did. It’s the culmination of an entire year. 

Hearing it all, Even is filled with something like pride for the boy, the way he so gracefully has taken responsibility. It is something he himself must learn to do.

Radiant Garden elects a city council, a group of seven individuals to take the brunt of the work from the committee. There’s some worry as to whether they may face legal consequences for what they did, but eventually, and along with the committee’s vouch, they’re allowed to remain as they were, so long as they provide their assistance. As this is what they all want anyway, it’s no issue. Ansem acts as advisor; with this to fill his days, he improves.

They’re allowed to build the garden. Almost everyone spends as much time here as possible, doing what they can. It’s good to work with the body.

Once it’s all done…

For a while he and Ansem stand in front of the wall of names. He places incense in the altar, lights it; many other burnt sticks are already crowding the stone.

_ I’m sorry. _

He doesn’t say it, not out loud. They’re resting in a place beyond words, no thanks to him. His heart is racing, and he can feel the wetness in his eyes. As much progress as they’ve made, the guilt will be there, probably forever. And rightfully so.

Ansem rests a hand on his shoulder. “Peace, Even,” he says gently. “It’s alright.”

Perhaps it’s this implication of forgiveness, but he breaks. It seems all the pain is at the surface now; the loss of his family, the brunt of what he’s done. It hurts to be forgiven. He does not nearly deserve it. 

Ansem gently embraces him. To be touched is something of a shock, and for a moment it only intensifies this crying fit. More pathetic yet, he’s clinging to him like a lifeline in this storm. 

But once it’s through, once he so slowly collects the pieces of himself, dries his eyes, there’s something like catharsis, an undoing rather than a sealing away. 

(And, he notes, Ansem still smells the same.)

“I… must apologize,” he says thickly. “This is most unbecoming.”

“I daresay you could use a cup of tea,” Ansem says, letting go of him.

“Perhaps something stronger.”

* * *

Even knows time is passing, as much as it may not feel like it. He shouldn’t be surprised when gossip is laid at his feet, brought by Dilan, who heard it from Ansem, who heard it from the city council, who heard it from the committee, who heard it from Demyx. It’s a complicated game of telephone, but as soon as Even hears it, he knows it’s not mere rumor:

Ienzo and Demyx are engaged.

He’s gotten used to the boy by now, but yet he feels something like the anger he had when he first found out they were together. Because god Ienzo is just so  _ young _ . Much too young to make a decision like this. Almost getting himself killed is one thing, but… getting married? At twenty-one?

“That so,” he says to Dilan. 

He smirks. “What can I say. My sources are reliable.”

“You should’ve been a journalist, not an engineer.” He leans against his palm. “Has anyone talked to him about it?”

“Not quite.” He shrugs. “Would it be the worst thing?”

“At this point in their neurological development, they are literally incapable of making consequential decisions. I don’t want them to do something they’ll regret.” His heart is beating hard with dread.

A shrug. “I’d take a divorced Ienzo over a dead or depressed one. Besides. Wasn’t your marriage rather spur-of-the-moment?”

He has a point. Still, Even feels blood rush into his face. “I’ll talk to him.”

He doesn’t have to wait long; the boy comes to him with a thick manuscript, a more portable version of the stories he’s gathered from their victims, and the survivors. It feels… odd, to hold it in his hands. Odd and uncomfortable. He knows the truth of it. Yet to hear their words is… well. Power to the boy for being able to handle it. “I never pictured you as a soft scientist,” Even says instead. 

Ienzo exhales. He needs glasses now, the first concrete sign of his humanity catching up to him. “You’re going to be frightfully disappointed in me, but I no longer derive any pleasure or fulfillment from so-called “harder” subjects.”

Even frowns. “Why on earth would I be disappointed?” As though pursuing his passions were a bad thing?

“I do recall a period in my life when you found my perusal of fiction a waste of time, when I could be studying.”

He sets the book down. “We all know what a fool I was, back then. No.” He smiles. “The only way I’d be disappointed in you was if you were to waste your life faffing about. But you were never lazy.”

He scratches his cheek. “I understand the… trepidation, you might feel,” he says slowly. “And… it is quite harrowing.”

Even drops his eyes. “I can only imagine what the experience has been like, for you.”

“...Gathering these stories?” He hesitates. “Not everyone is… willing to share such dark content of their hearts. I’ve had more than one door slammed in my face.” He wrings his hands. “I’d hoped that my suspicion regarding everyone’s opinion of us was mere paranoia, but some folks do feel a certain… ire. Not that I can blame them.” He clears his throat. “It’s… worth it, to hear their voices. We… need to understand the human impact. I don’t mean the numbers.” He is shy, sheepish. “I have… written something of an abridged memoir, myself.”

Ienzo always loved stories. It must be one of the many ways he’s trying to take care of himself. “It would only make sense. You are one of the victims.” Used, manipulated, stunted, deprived of a normal life.

He flinches. “Victim and perpetrator in one. Seems I am fated to live in dichotomy.” He inhales sharply. “I have already spoken to the others. It might be valuable to give your own version of events. Not necessarily for publication.”

Funny boy. “For the good of my recovery?”

The earnestness almost makes Even laugh. “Well, yes. You had said you were trying to write and reflect, to delineate a new identity. How is this any different? Your perspective could offer some insight to future generations, when they inevitably look back at all this.” 

“Record keeping,” Even mutters. “Very well. I… will consider it. Are you alright?”

He flinches, again, and presses a hand to his brow. “I had hoped these new glasses would lessen my headaches, but that appears not to be the case.”

Concern blooms in him. “You’re still getting them? After all this time?” Surely it isn’t healthy.

He smiles, but it looks fake. “Not frequently. You needn’t worry. Take as much time as you’d like with it. I have other copies.”

“I shall, but…” Even looks him over. He is improved compared to those early days--a healthy weight and color--but that doesn’t mean he isn’t still feeling the ramifications of all he did. “ _ Do _ let that fiance of yours take a look at you. Apparently he’s quite competent.” He waves his hand dismissively.

Ienzo, hearing the word, flushes; caught.

“Did you actually think you could keep it under wraps?” Even asks. “What with Dilan’s inane gossiping?”

“Not… secret. I don’t see why my personal life should be of interest to anyone.”

“Of course it will be, when we live on top of one another.” He debates biting this bullet. “You are so… very young. So young.”

He scowls. “As nobody will let me forget.”

“I don’t want you to get into something so permanent. You’re barely stable yourself.” When Ienzo says nothing, he adds-- “Even if you were not only twenty-one, you’ve only been with him a year. I realize you are not used to the idea of permanence, but this will be--”

“It was I who asked him.”

He blinks. Not at all what he thought. “I’d’ve--figured--”

He’s rather snappish when he says, “Demyx is very respectful of my boundaries. He would not force me into anything I did not explicitly ask for. Should it end, we will deal with it maturely. But I don’t see that happening.”

Again, his mind’s made up. Concern wells in Even. But he supposes Dilan must be right. The boy should be allowed to make his own choices. His life has already been so tempestuous; this might offer him a shred of stability, artificial or no. “Do you truly want this?” Even asks. “Would it make you happy?”

“Yes,” he says. “And I am already happy. Insofar as I can be, anyway.”

Then that’s that. “I suppose I will always see you as a… child.”

He sighs. “Par for the course when you raise someone.You were always… more my guardian than Ansem. But you must trust I am able to make my own decisions. After all, you--” He blushes.

“I what?”

“It was not me you came back to Radiant Garden for.”

“You know why I had to leave. Ienzo, I did not want to, but who else would’ve--”

“...I know.” He bites his lip. “Still. A note would’ve been appreciated. You needn’t protect me anymore. Especially from Demyx.”

Even sighs. “Old habits die hard. Or so the cliche goes.” 

“...Right. Well. I shall leave you to it, then.” He leaves, allowing Even to consider the manuscript in front of him. It takes a few minutes of culling his nerve to open it.

One could not call Ienzo a “concise” writer. His language is flowery, emotional; he plays with the voices of the survivors, curating it carefully. Even wonders if, had the boy been raised differently, he might’ve been a writer after all.

It is harrowing. The heartbreak and torment these people went through--the snippets of it--

_ Even once she was back, she was never the same. _

_ He just vanished. We thought it might’ve been the wolves, beyond the city limits. But then we heard those stories about the castle and I… I just knew, in the pit of my stomach. I felt so betrayed by the king. Why did he let this happen? _

_ I kissed their cheek, tied the ribbon in their hair. They were so excited to go; their whole class was rooting for them. They never came home. _

Even feels nauseous. Still, he continues. He knows he needs to do this, to listen to them. To again feel that human weight.

Perhaps the most upsetting part of it is Ienzo’s, shoehorned at the very back.

_ I know people must think we’re monsters. It is only right, it is only  _ true _. Yet we were also subjected to the darkness we bore, its ache, the way it destroys all that is good. My unraveling was a slow one, one I am still trying to fix. But is anything we do ever enough? _

Is it?

* * *

So Even writes again, abridging his manic, borderline unintelligible journals from the months prior into something halfway readable. It’s hard to find the balance, between feeling and fact, what will make a cohesive narrative. He was never a writer, nor, he thinks, does he want to be. He gives Ienzo some suggested edits and leaves it all at the child’s favorite desk in the library.

Again there’s that stiff sense of catharsis, of a sort of release. His mind is so much more tangled than he ever thought. More complex.

(More human.)

He wonders, with something like a flash, if in fact darkness harnesses the mind like addiction. It truly is a euphoric pull. If only, if only he had working MRI equipment to study the mind. All he has is blood, is feelings. That doesn’t account for much. Not watertight science.

He finds himself rambling about this to Ansem, of all people. 

This seems to shake him; for several moments Ansem just stares into the middle distance, something stricken on his face. Then, “Even, you’re a genius.”

“Don’t be absurd--it’s been in my face all along, yet I’ve ignored the signs--”

“We all have. We thought this was about morality--and it is, of course we’re still accountable for our actions. But all this… difficulty becoming human, the way we were undone so quickly… it makes a sort of sense. Why we couldn’t stop even though we knew what we were doing.”

“Which is why I’m positively aching to study our minds,” he says, pacing. “I’ve no functioning machinery. A blood test won’t tell me much of anything anymore, except chemistry, and it’s so variable considering we’re all basically guaranteed to have multiple mental illnesses outside of this supposed “addiction”. There’s simply no way--”

“Oh, I can think of one,” Ansem says.

Even snorts. “Really? Name it.”

“We do know a few people who work with the body. In a way that is not quite literal.” A smile. “Not everything has to be so black and white.”

He blinks. “That is… absolutely correct.”

* * *

When Even asks Demyx about it, he also gives him that same odd look.

“Well fuck,” he says. “I mean I’m happy to help, but like, I’ve only been doing this for a few months now. Not sure I can… collect data, or whatever.” He spins idly on one of Even’s stools. 

“You said you work with people’s energies. What does that tell you?”

He blows a raspberry. “Mostly it’s a… well. It depends. Like a color, or a note. Your personality, basically. But actually feeling inside the brain…” He looks at his hands. “You know… I’ve been desperately trying to repress it, but I’ve been inside someone’s head. I felt their…” He flinches. “Anyway. I wouldn’t know what to look for.”

“That I can help you with. And I can be guinea pig--if necessary.”

He bites his lip. “This will help people?”

“I’m positive.”

“Okay. Sure. I’m in.” He ruffles the hair at the back of his neck. His knee is jiggling. He doesn’t quite want to meet Even’s eyes. “I’ve gotta… do some reading. Some asking around.”

“I’m sure.”

“So guess I’ll go?”

“Of course. Thanks, Demyx. This means a lot to me.” To think there'd be a day when he _willingly_ sought Demyx's help, his _expertise._

He flashes a peace sign and stands. 

“Wait.”

He tenses. He knows they’ve both been anticipating this. “Yeah?” he asks cautiously. 

“You and Ienzo…” Even trails off. “Is this what you want as well?”

He looks up. He’s blushing. “It really is. I…” He bites his lip. “Love is weird and terrifying, but we kind of… helped each other become human. Kind of literally for me. Not sure if that’s why things between us are so intense. I can’t imagine it changing.”

“...I see.” He can tell there’s some realization to be gleaned from this; he can also tell that he desperately does not want to know it. “Very well.”

“Guess you can’t get rid of me after all,” he says. He smiles a little. “See ya.”

* * *

Love.

Why is Even thinking about this?

Feelings are complicated enough without adding romance to it. Familial, platonic love is one thing; anything else is too much.

He was married, once.

He still can’t be sure he truly loved that person the way they all blathered on about.  _ A _ love, not _ the _ love. Is this something he would want? Is he worthy of anyone? It’s surely not necessary. But for the first time Even desires a personal life… whatever that may mean. His work/life balance has never been ideal, in his brief time as a spouse, a parent. This vein of thought alone is indulgent. He should shunt it away, bury it. Besides, to want this type of love would mean there has to be an object of such affection… and there isn’t one. 

He decides to ask Ansem about it.

“I’m afraid I can’t be much use,” he says, barely looking up from the papers spread all across his desk. It’s a familiar sight, yet also one Even hasn’t seen in years. He chuckles wryly. “But Even, you are a human being. You have a right to these things, should you so want them.”

“What, and force someone else to put up with me? Perhaps my synapses are misfiring.”

Ansem circles something on the paper in front of him. “These people write law like they were raised in a barn.” Then, “I suppose they were. Anyway, perhaps you should view it as a sign of growth. You always held others at arm’s length--even before you became a Nobody. Now, you’re allowing people into your life, your heart.” He twirls a pen vaguely.

“It certainly does not feel like growth.” He scoffs. He shifts a little in his seat. “Is that something you ever saw for yourself? You’ve never mentioned a spouse, a lover.” This almost seems as if it is getting too personal. “Does it simply not interest you?”

“I… wouldn’t say that.”

Oh? 

“I am improving, true. I think it will be some time before I can confidently… pursue such matters.”

“...It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind.” Ansem is fond of writing letters; perhaps some pen pal?

There is just the _slightest_ hesitation, almost unnoticeable. “I do believe Dilan’s gossip mongering is getting to you.”

“...Perhaps.”

* * *

What does it mean?

Moreover, why does he care?

Every time Even tries to push the question out of his mind, it comes back with a vengeance. He keeps coming back to that interaction. And every time, it gives him a jolt of something like fear. He refuses to think critically about it. More important work at hand.

He’s again spending more time with Demyx; moreso, actually, than with Ienzo. If they’re to work together, it’s par for the course. But Demyx isn’t a scientist. Some things are simply beyond his realm of understanding. The boy is trying to study the texts that Even leaves him, but it all seems to worry him.

“Not sure I’m cut out for this,” he says. “You should really just ask Aerith.”

Even frowns. “Why not?”

“I…” He looks down at his hands, which are trembling. “I’m a total newbie. Who knows if what I find is even right?”

“I thought you’ve done this before?”

He flinches. “Once. And… not under ideal circumstances. I had to… stop someone from having a stroke.” He’s flushing. 

“This is not nearly so invasive.”

“I know that, but…” He traces a finger along the page. 

Even frowns. “What’s wrong? I don’t believe you’ll hurt anyone. I just want to look for injury, response, that’s all. Which is something you do every day.”

Demyx shakes his head. “It’s not that. I guess I should be honest. Family, and all.”

Even feels a thick wave of anxiety. “...What?”

He drops his eyes. “The person was Ienzo.”

His heart falls to his feet. Even feels his hand at his breastbone. “But the boy’s fine,” Even says. 

“Yeah. _Now._ These… headaches. It was more than just the manifestation of his will, or whatever. It was an accumulation of years of stress. Like the glasses. All the fucked up shit that happened to his body caught up to him. I was just lucky enough to be there when it happened.” His eyes are watering, and he blinks hard. “I just feel really  _ icky _ when I think about it.”

Even squeezes his shoulder gently, in an attempt to comfort. “I don’t… blame you.” Ienzo is the youngest of all of them. If he has--or had--such problems, what could be wrong with the rest of them? “You’ve gotten yourself looked at, I hope?”

“I… yeah. There would’ve been some trouble with my heart. But Aerith knew what to look for, so she fixed it.” He lays a palm on his chest. 

It’s becoming clear. “You’re scared of what you might find in the rest of us?”

“Maybe. It’s weird. I’m not used to my patients… being us.”

Even is also unsettled. Of course he knows that he’s treated his body poorly in the past--too much work, not enough food or sleep--but it’s another thing to embody that knowledge.

“At least it can be fixed,” he says slowly. “I don’t want to fuck up. Any time--but especially if it’s you guys. I… sort of care.” He laughs wryly.

“Well I’m afraid you’ve gotten yourself into a situation where you must be involved with us.”

“It’s easier now than it was back then. Don’t you think?”

“It gets easier every day.”

* * *

The pit keeps getting deeper. Every time he thinks he understands just how much darkness has destroyed them, it grows yet more cataclysmic. The stress--while they did not necessarily feel it as Nobodies--is having infinite consequences. After some prodding, he is able to convince them all to give him a sample of their DNA, to further study their epigenomes. It’s engrossing work--work that might help future generations avoid their perilous mistakes. The sample size is still incredibly small, and incredibly skewed. No women, for example, and most of them are middle-aged (or, begrudgingly, older). He wonders if the townsfolk would be willing to participate, but as soon as the thought forms he’s aware of the paranoia.

“I can bring it up to the city council,” Ansem says one evening, in his quarters. “And put out some feelers. They claim to be so interested in the people’s emotional state. And we are desperate for some kind of mental health treatment. This might help beget that.”

Even feels exhausted. He still has so much to do. He has to admit it’s nice to be driven again, to have a goal to work towards. It certainly has lifted him out of that dark, dangerous place. “Oh, I certainly hope so.”

Ansem puts down his pen, stretches his wrist. “I must say modesty becomes you.”

Even scoffs. “Funny.”

“I mean it. You’ve changed more than you think. I’ve so rarely seen you approach things with grace and tenderness.”

“Flowery words.” He picks at the ends of his hair, suddenly unable to look him in the eye. “I spent so long working so selfishly. I said it was for the greater good, but really it was for the greater good of… Even.” He winces. “To know I can actually help, or at the very least leave behind a study that might help future generations… is a comfort.” He leans his elbows onto the table. “I’m exhausted.”

“You look it. You should try to get some rest.”

“...Perhaps. I’ll get up when I can find the ambition.” 

He picks the pen back up. “No reason you can’t sit with a friend.”

“...You would consider me one?”

Ansem raises an eyebrow. “As if I would let you sit here blathering on otherwise?”

Even rolls his eyes.

“I do enjoy your company. Rather more than I used to. I am starting to… let go of the bitterness. It does nothing except make me harder and less tolerable. You are all trying so hard to better yourselves… I’d best follow suit.”

There’s a few moments of silence, but it’s comfortable. Even finds himself, again, thinking of their previous conversation. He’s almost tempted to ask. Should he? And why is such a thought putting a tightness in his throat? “...So what do you think of this wedding?” he asks instead.

Ansem fully sets aside his work, and leans back in the chair. “I did not think it would happen so soon. But they work well together, as a pair. Why wait, as it were. Demyx is an earnest young man, and he’s also changed so much. He really would do anything for Ienzo. And I think after so much neglect, Ienzo deserves as much love as he can find.”

“...It’s so… funny, I suppose. For the longest time all of us rotting in that castle could not tolerate each other, and here we are… quite literally family.”

“Better than being alone.”

“...It is. It took me a long while to realize I could not live that way. Too long. People need… people.” His lip curls.

Ansem laughs. “Quite.” He takes Even’s hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Besides, some deserve a fresh start.”

Even blinks. He should move his hand, but finds himself almost immovable. He recalls that night many years before, when he was bedridden with that flu. The way the touch seemed like it was always there. _ It sounds almost as if you have a certain individual in mind. _

_ Even. You dunce. _

Too slowly, he withdraws. “I should… get some sleep. We’ve both had long days.”

Ansem looks vaguely startled. “Yes. Well. Good night.”

“Good night.”

He limps back to his quarters, feeling vaguely nauseous, like he’s been punched. His heart rate is erratic. This is something very like panic, but at the same time, not  _ quite.  _ His mind races. It aches.

_ Isn't this what you've desired? _

With  _ Ansem? _

He feels like he can't breathe.

Are these feelings real, or his?

What does he _ want _ ?

That simple touch--a squeeze of the hand--is almost enough to unravel him. Much less--

He can not mentally compute it.

Even has to come out with it. To verbalize the thought in whole. To love Ansem?

And yet. Who else could it possibly be?

Is he in love?

He certainly isn't alone.

But isn't love instantly knowable?

Either way, Ansem likely has feelings for him. What does this mean? Is this what he wants?

After so long without anything, love and lust are incalculable. Unobtainable.

What does Even want?

Is he worthy?

He can't breathe.

* * *

"Even?"

He's pretending to sleep when he hears the voice. "Is something the matter?"

"...I would like a word." Ansem's voice is gruff, scratchy.

"Now?"

"Are you really asleep?"

A fair point. He puts on his robe. Finds Ansem in the doorway. (His heart stutters--a warning sign.) "What do you need?"

"...I'd like to talk."

He gets dressed. Follows Ansem down the hall in this silky blue night. His heart races, flooding him with cortisol.

(And something like hope.)

They walk for a few minutes. "So what exactly couldn’t wait until morning?" Even asks.

Ansem hesitates. "My words fail me. I… can… feel something."

"Congratulations."

He touches Even's shoulder. "I thought you may feel something as well."

His heart about shatters. "Ansem. You deserve more than me. A person who is whole, untainted, better than some wretch--"

Ansem touches his cheek, and his world about stops. "You are so much more than that."

In this dark hallway, Ansem leans up and, so gently, kisses him on the mouth.

It’s bizarre; how the body remembers what to do. It has to be close to fifteen years since he’s kissed someone, but yet something about this is _ so _ familiar. His smell, the subtle scratch of his beard. Like it’s all happened before. Something like panic replaces the hard-won pleasure, and he breaks away. He finds himself tensing, breaking away all too soon. 

“Are you alright?” Ansem asks.

“I’m not so sure. I just… why?”

“Haven’t we spent long enough being miserable and alone?”

“I… suppose.” He’s infinitely grateful for the semidarkness. He can feel himself unravelling.

“Do you want this?”

“What I want doesn’t matter.”

“But it does.” Ansem takes Even’s hands. 

“We took this sort of thing from people. Do we really deserve it?”

“And what is the alternative?” Ansem asks softly. “Locking yourself away? Grinding down your own emotions? None of that will meaningfully help you atone.”

He can hear himself breathing tremulously. “Alright.”

“Alright, what?”

Even can feel his words failing as well. “I will… try. But it’s been… I feel so--” A stuttering wreck. 

“We’re not young. We’ve no need to rush headfirst into things.”

“I need to… process all this.” He pulls away his hands. “I can find you later.”

“Of course.” Ansem chances kissing him once more. It’s quick, chaste, and yet is all too much. All of this touch is. Even can feel himself getting choked up. “Good night, Even.”

He listens to his footsteps retreating into the darkness. Despite the warmth of the early fall evening, he’s shivering. It’s not normal, to react this way; he knows this much. Below the anxiety, he feels something very like relief. Closure. He’s known Ansem longer than he’s known anyone. It’s only suitable they find one another now. 

He sinks wearily into bed, and sleeps.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. Bonds mend; love grows. Even completes his study, and finds a new, unexpected way to continue atoning.

Even’s never been to a wedding other than his own. Fascinating, the customs people will develop as a way to declare love--or occasionally, to secure power. More rarely, both. Not to mention the way it’s all affected by gender, sexuality, power.

All this faffing about to say that Ienzo, in a way his son, has just gotten married.

It was a short, simple ceremony, oddly devoid of a personal touch, in a bright alcove of a library. No decorations, no vows other than the ones determined by the (old? Hard to tell with Radiant Garden in flux) law. He’s not surprised that Ienzo is so private about this; he’s surprised that Demyx _ is _ . Then again, it is never easy to bear one’s heart. With a kiss, it’s over. They both truly seem so happy, like they’re glowing. He hopes for their sake that it works out.

“How did it feel to marry your son?” Even asks.

Ansem rolls his eyes at the lame, and somewhat inappropriate, joke. He merely officiated--who else had the authority here? “I feel in my heart of hearts it’s the right thing. I won’t soon forget the look on his face. I’ve never seen him so happy.” It’s a rainy day, cold and raw. Even glances out the hallway window. “How did it feel, when it happened to you?”

“Well, you know it was a shotgun affair.”

“...Quite. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get some pleasure from the fact that the first legal marriage since the Fall is a gay one. Things have changed. There’s still so much potential for this city--despite the fact that it’s in shambles. Potential for us as well.”

Even feels the blood rush to his face. “We’re in shambles too,” he says softly. 

“But we can rebuild,” he adds. “Let’s join the others. Aeleus made lunch.”

* * *

They keep their relationship under wraps, as much as they can, anyway. Dilan is less interested in gossip over Even than he was the boys. Thinking of its eventual revelation gives him intense anxiety; it gives him insight into his own outing of Ienzo, which makes him feel guilty, though he had good intentions at the time.

“It’s rather incestuous when you think about it,” Even mutters. “Demyx and Ienzo, you and I. Next thing we’ll hear about is Aeleus and Dilan.”

“I highly doubt that.” He leans back against the couch, resting an arm around Even’s waist. Touch is still overwhelming, but becoming more comfortable. “Nothing incestuous about it--we essentially raised the boy.”

“And now here we are,” he mutters. Ansem’s made them both hot toddies, and he fears he’s rather less sober than he would like to be. Letting the world soften a little bit is quite a challenge. 

Even isn’t sure if it’s love. It’s something, something he carries with him daily. Not quite lust, either, even when they kiss; they haven’t moved very far on that front, either. He’s fairly sure the physical side of it would take work to find, and he’s not even sure if he needs that. If simple romantic touch unravels him, more… active touch would be completely destructive. 

“...Not much progress?” Ansem asks. “With your work?”

“Well, it’s a lot of busywork at the moment, getting all this sequencing done. I could so use an assistant. Aeleus steps in now and again, but he also has much to do. Not to mention, both of the individuals who could also be of use are on their honeymoon. Best let them enjoy things while they can.” He shakes his head. 

“I’m afraid when it comes to genetics I’m rather hopeless,” Ansem admits. “I always was.”

“It certainly isn’t easy for a layman.”

“...You’re funny.”

Even smirks. 

“How about I give you some of my work to figure out?” He shakes his head. “I got a draft of a bill on a  _ napkin _ the other day. I understand there’s a reason these people were elected, and they are competent, but… the decorum. I shouldn’t have to manually draft things for them.”

“You’re a civil servant--emphasis on the latter word.”

Ansem laughs. “Quite. I have literally asked for this. Fate could have set me up much worse. Heaven knows I deserve it.”

A pause. The fire, in the hearth, pops, making Even’s heart stutter, not helped by the alcohol. The only reason he’s able to be in the same room as one is the warmth; it’s necessary here. This still isn’t easy. Ansem notices this and gives his hand a squeeze. “I’m alright.”

“...Is he still trying to get in touch with you?”

Even bites his lip. “Every week or so he tries to talk to me. I ignore it. I suppose I could simply… block the IP address, and… I just don’t. I’m equally sure I can’t forgive him. But at the same time…” He swallows, tasting earl grey and rum. “I’ve been forgiven much, and changed much, who am I to say he hasn’t also? Especially under Isa’s watchful eye.”

“You needn’t rush. Confront him when you’re ready.”

“...Quite. I fear in this life I might never be ready for some things. I haven’t… much time.”

“Thirty or so years isn’t enough time?”

He shrugs. “I’m not so sure. I want to see Ienzo grow up--well, grow older. I need to do good work. I still have so much to do, and I’ve already wasted so much time faffing about.”

“You were psychologically shattered. ...We both were. You had to heal.”

“Is this healing?” he asks, more to himself.

“It certainly isn’t stagnation. Not anymore.”

Even realizes he’s leaning against him. It’s a warm sort of touch, a comfortable one. While his heart is still beating harder than it should be, he thinks it’s no longer from the fire. 

Ansem brushes his fingers against Even’s cheek. There’s a sweet tension in the air, tension he hasn’t felt in a long time. And maybe it is the alcohol, but he swears he can feel a sort of desire. It’s very nearly alien. He kisses Ansem first this time and feels himself being drawn close. This is such a young sensation, jarring and bizarre. A hand tangles in his hair. They continue like this for an unknowable amount of time, exploring one another. Despite the touch being muffled by clothing, it’s still all so much, and this is only intensified when Ansem slides a hand under his shirt. A sudden fear breaks what little pleasure he’s found.

“...Even?”

He pulls away and hugs himself tightly. His hands are trembling. Ansem rests a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t,” Even says hoarsely. Ansem listens, giving him some space.

What a fool. What a naive, stupid-- Even pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to get himself back under control. “What is it that upset you?” Ansem asks gently. 

How to verbalize something like this? He’s gotten used to dealing with these scars. Only now is he fully processing that, should he pursue this relationship, likely with time Ansem would end up seeing them at some point or another. This is all dredging up something sickly and awful.

But he’s a smart man. “Is it the scarring?” he suggests. 

“It will repulse you,” he says, barely aware of the thought before it’s being spoken. “You needn’t deal with something like that.”

“They’re a part of your history. A part of you. I highly doubt that would repulse me--not with all we’ve worked through.”

Even keeps his eyes stubbornly on the floor, glad for the curtain of his hair (which, he realizes, is mussed).

“Of course we needn’t get into anything which may make you uncomfortable.”

He smooths at his hair. A thick anxiety catches in his throat. He isn’t used to being embodied, not particularly. There’s entirely too much going on at once; the panic, the overstimulation, and yes, arousal. It fills him with a sort of shame. He reaches for the buttons at his throat, his hands shaking so hard he can barely undo them.

“What are you doing?”

“Proving you wrong,” he says in a stranger’s voice.

“Even--”

“Please.”

“You’re worrying me.”

He’s finally able to free the last button. He sheds the garment quickly, like ripping off an adhesive. 

For a moment there’s just silence. His throat is tight. “I told you,” he says, not looking at Ansem. “I’m afraid I--”

He’s pulled into a gentle embrace. The tremulous tears in his eyes run over. It’s so… odd to have hands on his bare skin, and he’s no clue if it’s pleasant or not. So instead he just cries. “I could care less what shape your body is in,” Ansem says. “This was never about that. But… this shows what you’ve survived, how you’ve changed and overcome. Don’t be ashamed.” He kisses Even’s shoulder once, sending a shudder through him that has nothing to do with pain. 

After much too long he pulls it together, tugging his shirt back on. This isn’t helped at all by the occasional crack and pop of the fire. He’s exhausted, anxious.

“...As I said, you needn’t push your boundaries,” Ansem says softly. “It’s taken so long to find one another--what’s a little more waiting?”

“It’s not for lack of--”

“I know.”

“It’s just been so--”

“It’s alright.”

He exhales heavily, tasting the inside of his lungs. “I should… try to…”

When he doesn’t finish the sentence, Ansem says, “Stay.”

* * *

The first time they attempt to go to bed together, it's something of a failure. Then again, "failure" is a bit harsh--in the literal sense it was successful, just extremely brief. Embarrassingly so. Not just for Even, which he finds a surprise; but neither of them have ever prioritized physical intimacy.

For a long while he lays in Ansem's bed after, coming to a cold realization that it's his first orgasm in at least ten years. His body seems unsure of what to do afterwards; his skin is quite raw. He takes a deep breath, watching the ceiling. They don't touch; they both know it would be too much.

"...Are you alright?" Ansem asks.

Finally, he looks over. "I… believe so." He sits up, noticing first how Ansem's eyes roll over the scars on his back, then how he tries not to look. "Yourself?"

"I am no longer… accustomed to such things." He begins redressing. "Would you like some tea?"

"Yes." He takes the offered cup when it comes, glad for the warmth. "I… feel so young… yet in a breath so old."

"Me as well. Things no longer… run so hot, as it were."

"Not quite what I was referring to."

"Then what were you?"

"This cursed… tenderheartedness. Makes me feel like a schoolboy. And yet… the years weigh heavily."

"But we're here." He doesn't quite face Even. "How long exactly have we known another, Even?"

"Thirty-some years. Much too long."

He chuckles. "And yet you're willing to stick with me."

"Frankly, no one else could put up with me." He sets the cup down onto its saucer. "So that's that."

"Seems to be, yes."

He settles back against the pillows. "I...am sorry things were so uneventful."

He smiles wryly. "As if anything is uneventful with you."

"...I'll ignore your tone."

He leans over and kisses him once. "Somehow this feels familiar."

"I… agree."

* * *

It takes a few tries for them to be comfortable with it, with each other. For it to last longer than a few mere moments. But it gets easier, their bodies becoming accustomed to touch again. It's not the same as when they were younger. These things almost take a certain premeditation. It must be wanted.

And it is.

He's been so passive, in the past; what better way to show love than through an act? It takes yet more time, to graduate from simple touch to something more. Time, patience. Passion is only a quiet passenger at the moment.

But when it does happen, Even notes with a thrill, it's  _ he _ taking his old master.

And it does feel so familiar, to touch him, to make love to him. So familiar and so  _ right _ . 

"Truthfully," Ansem admits after one of these nights, both of them beyond exhausted, "I believe I may have harbored such feelings for longer than I originally thought."

"Oh?"

"Even, you have such a unique mind, a unique way of seeing things. I've been drawn to it for years--but so like a fool, it took me years to figure out why." He brushes Even's hair behind his ear. "By then… you had already fallen into your whirlwind marriage."

"I do not regret it."

"Nor should you. I suppose… it was simply not our time. We've had to grow, to allow the love into our hearts." He kisses him on the forehead. 

"I think you are the only one who I allow to see me," Even admits. "I struggle with vulnerability."

"I know you do. I… do as well." He rests a hand on the small of Even's back. 'We can be so much stronger together."

"I… want nothing more."

* * *

Atonement comes in pieces, in waves. Mostly they assist the boys, the committee, when they are not pulled apart by their own projects; providing research and tertiary support. It's humble work, work Even tries to do to the best of his own abilities. This town has a use for the educated, but he no longer seeks credit. 

Not long after he and Demyx marry, Ienzo comes to Even. They get coffee. They are very nearly normal.

Happiness suits Ienzo, eases the sharpness in his eyes. Demyx seems to stabilize him, allowing him to feel young. He smiles easily, chats. There's a warmth there wasn't before. Wholeness. Even realizes he’s never quite seen it in the boy, and has to swallow the sadness.

It's odd to find himself on the other side. After a considerable pause that Ienzo asks, "Even, are… never mind."

"Boy, what's on your mind?"

"...I'm nearly twenty-two, will you ever stop calling me that?"

He rolls his eyes.

"Forgive me if this is… overstepping." He bites his lip. "Have you and Ansem…"

He feels his heart catch, a bizarrely young feeling. "What?"

"Do you have feelings for one another?" He raises an eyebrow.

"...Like?"

"Even, I know you know what I mean." His expression is so droll, funnily serious. "It's… okay if you do."

Even sighs. "We've been… grappling," he admits. "Though you must tell no one--especially that husband of yours."

"Who do you think gave me the idea?"

Even feels his face warming. "Does everyone know?"

Ienzo smiles wryly. "Why do you feel the need to keep it a secret?"

"Because it's a personal matter, not a public one."

Ienzo rolls his eyes, perhaps at the hypocrisy. "Are you scared of what they might think?"

"What, Aeleus, Dilan? Unless all your gossiping already got to them?" He shakes his head. "I'm… unsure. I feel as though--"

"You don't deserve to be happy?" He clucks his tongue. "To be colloquial--been there, done that." He looks down into his coffee cup. "It takes… work, to be vulnerable. But it's necessary work. If you have  _ someone _ , regardless of romance, then all the better." He chuckles a little. "Though I'd be lying if I said it doesn't amuse me."

"Boy--"

"You both raised me. Willingly or not. Now you're together?" He points at Even. "You gave me hell for getting with Demyx. Now--"

"I know, I know, I'm a hypocrite. What else is new?"

Another laugh. "I do believe this is the first time I've seen you so embarrassed." Then, "I hope you can find peace, Even. I really do. It took you so long to recover… and then Ansem… I worried--"

"You may be orphaned again?" he asks dryly. "I'm afraid you must deal with our neuroses for some years yet." He squeezes the boy's hand, feeling the wedding band against his palm. "Have things changed?"

"Yes and no," Ienzo admits. "He introduces me to as many people as he can… just to say the word. It's made him so happy. Why wait on such happiness? I do not think my feelings will change. They've only… gotten stronger."

This is a feeling Even can relate to. He came across these emotions slowly… and now he seems tangled in them. “...Quite.” There’s nothing left of the espresso he’s ordered; he looks down into the smear of brown as though he might divine something. “Ienzo, are you fulfilled?”

He considers this, canting his head slightly. “I like to believe so,” he admits. “I have my husband, my family, satisfying work. True, life is much… smaller than it used to be, but is that a bad thing?” He drums his fingers on the table. “The council has reached out to me after reading my manuscript. They’ve… offered me something of a job.”

Even feels his eyebrows shoot up. “Ienzo, that’s--”

“I’d be helping them create a mental health program. From scratch. I feel… honored to be chosen.” His face is pink. “Worried that I’m not qualified--after all this time, technically I have no degree.”

“What, that piece of paper?” The boy’s studied for years. Doubtless he has the equivalent of several degrees of reading.

He makes a face. “You continually dangle yours over Demyx.”

“...Because his reactions are rather amusing.” He chuckles a little. “Boy, if they chose you, they feel you’re capable. And you are. All these years I wanted nothing more than for you to get help--if you can give others that, all the better. But it shan’t be easy.”

“It’s a… challenge.” He smiles a little. “You know I love puzzles.”

* * *

The study continues. It changes, grows. He finds himself working closely with almost all of them in some capacity, but it’s Dilan who does most of the admin work, with everyone else pulled elsewhere. While at first their talk is all scientific, something like a friendship redevelops. 

“More information from the rumor mill,” Dilan says, folding up the accordion of his own epigenome.

Even feels something of a punch; caught. “You and your gossip. The lot of you.”

“Not so much a rumor as something told to me. And the informant was very adamant you know it’s he.”

“...You never did speak concisely.”

“I do believe Ienzo is seeking something like revenge for when you outed him.”

“As if the boy would ever be straight?”

Dilan smirks. “I admit I’m not surprised. Not at all.”

He almost drops the tablet he’s holding. “No?”

“Ansem’s loved you for years. It’s about time you came around.” A laugh.  “It’s true. Why do you think he was so angry, so hurt at _ you _ ? In his eyes you could do no wrong--until you did.” He shrugs. “Neither of you are very good at feelings.”

“Don’t I know it.” Still, he’s rather shaken. “Bastard could’ve said something sooner. Would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.”

Dilan chuckles. “We _all_ could’ve saved ourselves a lot of trouble. Yet here we are. I could never have guessed the path we’d end up on, not if my life depended on it.”

“...Are you satisfied with the way things are?”

He touches his breastbone. “There will always be--pain. Yet, I feel now more than ever that we can be... On the other side of history. Hence why this work is so important.”

There’s a knock at the door. Aeleus comes in, his overalls spattered with paint. “How goes it?”

“We certainly are making a lot of paper,” Dilan says. “One can’t rush perfection.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a lovely day outside. I was hoping you two would get some lunch with me.”

“But we’re in the middle of--” He sees the look in Aeleus’s eye. “Sure. Why not.”

It’s spring now, the flowers in bloom again. They’re wilder than they used to be, not as tended to, but still beautiful. They end up in a courtyard, where they see Demyx and Ienzo seated on a blanket, a picnic basket between them. “Hey, you made it!” Demyx says. 

“I had my doubts,” Ienzo admits. 

“...Rather juvenile, isn’t it?” Dilan says.

“Oh, hush. I made ceviche. Come sit and eat it.” 

Dilan takes the proffered container with a scowl. 

“...A gathering?” Even hears. He turns and sees Ansem. “Not exactly the emergency I was told it is.”

“You wouldn’t have left otherwise,” Ienzo points out.

“We wanted to hang out. Sue us.”

They settle on the blanket. The sunlight feels good on his skin, which is still tender from all his time indoors. It’s odd, to be gathered here so; but yet this is perhaps one of the most normal things they’ve all done. When was the last time anyone spent time enjoying anything?

“Oh, one more thing,” Ienzo says. “We are absolutely not allowed to talk about work for the next half hour.”

“I’m keeping a timer,” Demyx adds, holding up his phone. 

“Since when are you allowed to make rules?” Dilan asks. 

“Since I apparently became the expert on mental health.” He rolls his eyes. “Besides. We’re all… much too burned out. If we’re to live as long as possible… we must let down our hair now and again. So to speak.”

“This is your doing, I’m sure,” Even says to Demyx. “I’ll not have you chipping at his work ethic.”

Demyx sticks out his tongue. “Hey. I also pull like fifty hour weeks, so I’m not the lazy asshat I used to be. Pass me the pasta salad.” 

They all eat in silence for a few minutes. Then, Dilan asks Demyx, “Do you ever miss home?”

His chopsticks slip in his hand. “Hate to break it to you, but that place was never home.”

“Home is here?” Ienzo asks dryly.

“Well, isn’t it?” He wraps an arm around Ienzo’s waist. A comfortable, familiar gesture. “Where the heart is, and all that crap?”

“It was always about the bonds,” Ansem adds gently. “It took much too long to realize.”

“Besides. I figures there are much worse places--and much worse people--to end up with.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dilan says. 

Ienzo digs in the picnic basket. “I’m afraid the strongest thing I have is iced tea.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking anyway,” Aeleus pointed out.

He blushes. “I’m twenty-two. Might I remind you that the legal age is eighteen--”

“So defensive, so fast, Ienzo,” Dilan says.

“Well when I’m getting it from four sides, I must be.” He pauses, blinks, then laughs a little.

“What’s so amusing?” Even asks. 

“I’m afraid it’s nothing of momentous insight,” he says, shaking his head. “This ragged parenting… is so like the old days.”

“You’re right,” Aeleus says. 

His expression darkens a little. Demyx squeezes his hand. “Not quite.”

“It can be better,” Even says gently. 

He nods once. “It already is.”

* * *

“...Blast.” His fingers tangle in the fabric at his throat. 

Ansem barely looks up from the book he’s reading. “What ails you now?” he asks.

“Two PhDs and a medical degree, and I can’t remember how to tie a stupid Windsor knot.”

Ansem approaches him and takes the knotted fabric. Quite quickly, he fixes it. “Years and years of silly galas and dinners. I can--and have--done this in my sleep. There.” He tightens the knot at Even’s throat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

“Something like this must be done on one’s own, I think.” He turns back to the mirror. The suit is simple, and not quite tailored, but he still feels overdressed. “Besides, I don’t want them to think it’s some quid pro quo arrangement.”

Ansem rolls his eyes. Then, a bit more slyly, “You do look quite nice.”

He blushes. He so despises that Ansem can get this sort of reaction out of him. “I’m only feral most of the time, not all of it.” He picks up the portfolio of papers. “Feels I’m defending my theses all over again.”

“Luckily you needn’t be quite so formal. Not like the old days. I’m betting at least one of them will be wearing sneakers.” He brushes microscopic dust off of Even’s shoulder. “A good first impression doesn’t hurt.” Ansem chucks him lightly under the chin. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Don’t you start--”

“Truly.” He squeezes Even’s free hand. “You’ve worked so hard to get to this moment. This work will help them shape the town’s future. A hope, a catharsis, a proper way to treat the afflicted.” He kisses him once. “Now go, so you can come celebrate. I fear I may have made you late--not that their timekeeping is pristine.”

“I’ll not have you spoil me--”

“Go.”

“Yes… well…” He bobs his head once. He can feel the anxiety fluttering within. While these papers are only a concise summary of the project, it still feels so heavy. He hopes it will be good enough, sound enough. It’s been years. Now to let it go--what will become of him?

“...There you are.” Ienzo’s waiting by the stairs. “Even--we simply must work on your punctuality.”

“Blame your father wittering over me.” He looks him over, sees his white coat, unbuttoned, the black turtleneck beneath it. “You’re going like that?”

He shrugs. “This is my professional uniform. This is a professional appointment.”

“At least pull back your hair--”

“I absolutely will not.” He smiles. “Even. Relax. It’s going to be fine.”

They set off towards the new city hall. It could’ve easily been established in the castle, but Even can’t blame the decision--it’s a good one, in his opinion. Helps make the townspeople trust the fledgling government. “Your husband couldn’t come?”

“He was quite literally getting ready when he was called away. Another birth.”

“That’s too bad. It’s because of him this is done.” He watches Ienzo’s expression closely and then adds, “An awful lot of them these days, no?”

“People are becoming comfortable starting families.”

It’s a perfect sunny day. Even wonders. “...I don’t suppose--”

Ienzo picks up on the subtext straightaway. “It’s in the cards for me?” he asks. “Feeling rather tender in your old age? Craving grandchildren?”

“Boy, there’s no need to be nasty.”

Ienzo laughs. “You’re too funny.” Then, after long enough that Even already decided to drop the subject, “We haven’t revisited the matter in a while. I’m not sure the time is right. What happened to me being much too young?”

“I don’t care either way--so long as you are happy.”

He nods once. “It is… strange. I thought this peace I felt internally would be… temporary.”

“It means you’re on the right path.”

“I surely hope so.”

“You’re doing great things. Saving lives.”

He shrugs. “It’s the least I can do.”

The receptionist in the city hall waves them in boredly. The council chamber is still haphazard--two folding tables and a bunch of folding chairs. “There you are,” one of them says. Even looks down, and sure enough--sneakers. “Great. Let’s get started.”

He’s practiced this speech many times, the way he must simplify the hard science of it (Demyx was a good test for this), the display of the hard data. Ienzo chimes in occasionally with the more psychological aspects, the way it affects emotions, hearts. 

The impossible cause and effect of darkness.

Despite these years of research, he still feels like he only has a beginner’s grasp, even as he proposes treatment options. He hands out copies of the journal--a scant forty pages spanning more or less his entire career. 

“Thank you for this insight,” another one says. “We want to help people however we can… but most of us are tradespeople. We can’t study it the same way. This will be taken into account when it comes to the creation of new services.”

“It is my duty,” Even says. 

“We need educated people again,” a third adds. “Everyone… is going to need a hell of a lot more help.”

“Perhaps I can be of use.” He’s barely conscious of the words. “I taught in my day--I’d be more than willing to assist in the drafting of a curriculum.”

The council member smiles. “Oh, but it goes deeper than that.”

* * *

“...And you musn’t say anything.”

Ienzo is practically vibrating with excitement. “Even, this is a big deal.”

“No use counting our chickens.”

“A  _ university _ ?”

“No funding. Limited resources. Likely five or six pupils and one or two courses. More like a one-room schoolhouse.”

“But it could be--”

“Boy, I’m old. Likely I’ll be long gone before any of this truly is established.”

This sobers him, as Even hoped it would. “You’re only nearing sixty.”

“And considering all I’ve gone through, it’s lucky I’ve lived this long.” He offers a smile. “Now how I imagined the day would go, but very well. Work to be done. This is no reward; if anything, this is a punishment.”

“But how do you feel?”

He considers it. “...Overwhelmed,” he admits. “But this is a way I can help. I just hope I’ve developed some patience over the years. Goodness knows I’ll need it.”

Ienzo takes both his hands and squeezes them. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Yes, yes, all this patting of my ego.”

“Truly.” His gaze becomes sharper, more earnest. “Once upon a time you were… locking everyone and everything away, and suffering. A selfish, devious researcher. Now here you are… so kind. Careful.”

“Atonement requires humility,” he says gently. “Otherwise, what is meaningful change?”

Ienzo nods once. “I look forward to pursuing this with you,” he says. "I do hope you'll let me be a part of this."

Even squeezes his shoulder. “I’m afraid we’ve just begun, little one.”

* * *

Beginnings.

Things are not quite so easy now. He can feel he’s getting older, from the gray streaked in his hair to the arthritis slowly taking his joints. How strange, to begin again at this age. He finds a sort of pleasure in his work, in the too-young inquisitiveness of his students. He gives them what tools he can and hopes they can do better. He knows that eventually they’ll find out about his past and have questions. He knows, and is prepared.

There are so many other beginnings.

After years of consideration, he agrees to marry Ansem. They do so quietly, without fuss, only to be faced with an enraged Ienzo and Demyx, who apparently wanted nothing more than to be there. Even doesn’t know why; it’s merely a formality at this point. Yet to go through with it is something of a relief. 

When he can, he still visits his first spouse and son, where they rest, quietly. There will always be an ache, he thinks, but Even’s life is full again. 

He helps Ienzo, his very much living son (it was always so, but the marriage simply made it official), and his husband conceive a child, with the young woman who is their surrogate. It’s odd to revisit such work related to the replicas, after all this time. Odd and slightly uncomfortable. But their happiness makes it worth it, and it does brighten his days when he can care for the child. 

Xion, Roxas, and Naminé live full lives, ordinary lives. He hears of their careers, their marriages, when they visit. They age. They’ve gotten to grow. 

He sets aside his research of that time. He’s left instructions for its decryption in the event of his death, but otherwise, he has no desire to share it. There’s no real need; no life needs to be created.

“A sensible choice,” Ansem says. It's a lovely summer night; they stand on the balcony of their bedroom, just breathing the clean air.

“I would hope I’ve gained a whit of it.”

“A whit, and more.”

He chuckles a little. “Here’s a funny thought.”

“...What?”

“The boys--hardly boys anymore--are the same age I was when I came back; their daughter, Ienzo’s.”

He blinks. “I suppose that’s right.”

“If you could change things, would you?”

“...An unnecessary thought experiment.”

Even rests his arm around him more comfortably. “Humor me, then.”

Ansem sighs. “If you look at it from a purely moral standpoint--I would,” he admits. “If I could stop the suffering, the loss of life that has been incurred. Absolutely. But personally… that would mean I’d likely have never found you, would never have gotten to know Ienzo, or his wayward husband. And the loss of that… is painful.”

“I suppose that is well reasoned. And I myself don’t have an answer to that question.”

Ansem kisses him once. “There’s no point dwelling on what could have been. Aren’t you satisfied with what you have now?”

“Perhaps it is silly--but yes, absolutely I am.”

“I think we’ve earned a bit of peace.” He embraces him, resting his head on Even’s shoulder. “Now it’s your turn to humor an old man.”

“Right. Very well.”

He takes his hand and leads him inside, to the rest of their lives.    


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to say a huge THANK YOU to those of you who have joined me on this journey! I love these characters so much and I hope you've enjoyed this story. It feels odd to close the book on this series, but I look forward to whatever comes next. This has been so much fun to write and explore, and I truly appreciate all of you who have left kudos and commented.
> 
> Until next time... take care of yourselves.
> 
> A.


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